a ditty

Sleep is for the weary

Dark

Dank

Dreary

Days and days of nothingness

And my imagination writhes alive

Becoming far too busy with peculiarities

That I have no excuse for

Here

On a bed

In a room

Behind locks and locks and locks

In a country torn by civil strife and cultural unrest

And general dissatisfaction

My mind wanders again

It wanders home.

primitive

Touch skin out and in

Thin

Tough break

Make it real, make me feel

You

Taste touch stare

Floating on air

Too slow to begin

Too quick to end

Again

Again

Again.

don't stop

Fucking

Life of a fugitive

Staring straight ahead

Get inside, do things to me

Your pure heart too rough for mine beating

Pump pump pump rhythmic

Nature is a timebomb ticking eggshells too fragile

Me

Too quick to step

Inside mind

Around a clown of ups and downs to ins and outs of you

Fulfill

That thrill

Of a still life.

canned

Can’t

Won’t

Stop.

Longing, missing, waiting, wishing.

Instead

I

Continue. Forge on. Sure, I am.

Make it right, baby, make it true.

satisfy

Two steps from the edge I will

Take the plunge

So surreal

Makes it close, too close

Swirling whirling nothing happiness twisting turning

Burning

For more.

Red

Not quite too delicious for this life

Not quite too light to take a swift bite

Out

Of an apple

Cored to the quick

Lick

That juice right off of your fingers

Here in neverland

That juice never made

Such a difference

too you

Lying in bed again I stare at the wall

Glance at the window, giggling

Selflessness right side up in my belly

Heaving with weight of

Spaghetti and scones.

Ireland has a funny way of fucking with your psyche.

And I can’t stop thinking of home

I can’t stop thinking of you, again,

You

With your silhouette

And your dirty hands and stiff fingers wrapped

Tapped

Zapped, zapping

My insides

Quick like a rabbit and swift like a knife

(I’ve run out of excuses for this one)