I'm in this same goddamn bed
ironically enough it wasn't the one I slept in when I met you
it's the one I was in the first time you broke up with me
but the second time
i was out on a porch
and i lied to myself
when i claimed this new book
wouldn't be about anyone in particular
maybe just fucking stories i decided to make up
but i began to think about my own made up significance
about beds
my covers are a mess by the way
i don't see the point in making a bed
if you'll sleep in it and fuck up the sheets the next night
it doesn't matter though
none of it really does
but like i said
I'm in this same goddamned bed
and maybe there is no significance
other than the fact I can't sleep
maybe i can i just haven't tired
the bed is soft enough
and i know i deserve it
deserve to be wrapped up
in the ever fleeting covers
that are tangled together like lovers
at the foot of my bed
tangled like our legs were
tangled like our legs weren't
look as i become self aware
in my own damn writing
the rapid changing of my voice
and whom i am speaking to (about?)
but like i said
it doesn't matter
nor did it ever
YOU ARE READING
The future has already past
PoezjaWhile my mind urges me to write something more than I think I can be myself, I sit in my bed the light dimmed and music playing in the background trying to figure out why It's in this book that I will write more. I'm not even sure it matters. I'm...
