We’re all loveless
and
you’re not insomniac,
You’re just used to sleeping late.
You’re just sleep deprived and
crying under your rugged
quilt because of the brightness
of your blatant loneliness.
Your sleep cycle is terrible.
You’re like a window that has
on it’s edge
a bunch of sunglasses but no
sun shining at all,
a quiet existing corner
in a world full of agony
and debris of brokenness.
You know,
in a few seconds your face
is going to dissolve into
a widespread black and
you’ll die a digital death,
you’ve ditched the yellow pages
and you’re wafting through
the vacant streets asking
people who they are:
A plastic doll in a dull dollhouse
was killed by a child,
yesterday.
And a ragged toy shattered the glasshouse too, yesterday.
No one likes to scorch earth
looking for past,
and yet, here we are.
Filling in on the blank spaces;
awake at night,
trembling hands shooting
through the dismal entropy of
of a loneliness that wears
a transparent camisole.
Loneliness has a hooker stamp
and it says: tramp.
—2018 ©