Its a concoction of emotions, while having convulsions in your mind while in attempts to reconstruct your life.
I wanted to say that I honestly cannot sleep.
A part of me has gone away,
No wonder why I haven't slept today.
I've lost something.
The feeling of loss is somewhat a leech on the idea that you cannot maintain yourself.
Almost like this poem.
This isn't a poem.
More of a tangled up mess made from stress leading up to the garbaged up call of distress.
My body made of wreckage, I am no longer stable.
From the look of it all, I feel like I'm disabled.
My arms that which held you close was made to ash. Gone it be, like the face I gave when I knew we were down under.
I'm no longer the same, my face, almost a facade now.
When I see me, I don't. More of a mistake I have made, and my expressions become bitter to the soul as of it know how my heart still grows.
What am I saying?
This poem's a disaster
More of rambled up garbage
Because I know I'll never solve this-
Problem of continuity of referring back to the same cycle of repeating my own nostalgia.
Just know I can't sleep.
I can't dream.
And I can't leap the thought that I can easily write a poem anymore.
For garbaged writing is what's left in the loss of unslept sleep.