There are times where I feel that sleep
is a waste of time.
There is so much story to write, thought to pen, and words to rhyme.
There are nights where I cannot go to sleep,
my words will not let me.
They flow down into my hands, and proceed to pulse a beat,
that is hard to ignore, harder to sleep.
So I drag my body up, into an upright position, and pick a method of writing,
Pen, paper, or typing,
And I get to work.
Pages later my hands are slowing down,
there are no more words to write.
But my mind is determined to
not waste the night,
and pushes me to persevere.
It seems that the only form of discipline I have,
manifests itself in words.
My words.
And the only command to which I adhere is to pick up a pen and start writing before I forget where the words are supposed to go.
They mock me like a crow,
sitting over his field,
in perfect confidence that they will wield
my pen like a sword and
sharpen it over every word
that flows in ink and sinks into permanence
to forever remain.
A stain upon my history book, an entry for the records.
My words demand of me a certain intimacy,
one of knowing myself in order to be known.
They demand that I shatter some of the darkness inside
so that the light that abides deep down will no longer hide nor make no sound.
My words demand sound.
The sound of the synchronized parts of me to flow into one single noise:
The scratch of pen upon paper,
the sound of ink flowing thicker and thicker proving that it is thinker than blood,
proving that ink can bring us together,
unite us in love,
to prove that we all bleed the same way,
despite feeling like we are a collection of failed yesterdays,
Ink can prove us all wrong.
If only we let it show us what we are capable of.
There time when I feel sleep is a waste of time.
There is so much story to write, thought to pen, and words to rhyme.
There are nights where I cannot go to sleep,
my words will not let me until I bleed.
SK
