Prosetry no. 1

Quiet dreams single stain the glass of my expression,

The brown and gold of my cornea are tinted tired,

wistful,

Lonely.

I tried sleeping,

waking wishing dreaming I await Mr. Sandman's last call at the bar,

my money isn't good here,

I wait for the dregs of sleep that more wealthy patrons leave behind in the glass,
when my money's good I can drink all I want,

when it's bad my throat gets sore from thirst.

Lust, Interest, and a Mercurial attention are my bedmates,

the four of us sharing a bed meant for two,

I'm the biggest one here, but they take up all the space,

tiredness rests on me like a blanket too small,

I can't cover up,

wrap around,

or keep myself comfy,

If I'm brain tired I'm not body tired,

If I'm body tired I'm not emotionally tired,

But if I'm not tired enough I'm spiritually tired.

What do others think about, when they stare into the nothingness waiting for death's little cousin,

do they think about the same things I do?

Kisses,

Mu Shu Pork,

factoids growing into facts that want to grow up to be full information

do they all lust for the sex to exhaust body and soul,

the crave that last drink to uncomfortable oblivion,

the rocking sensation of a parent's care that makes you fall on angel's wings into warm nothingness?

Illness sucks.