Dry eyes clacking around my skull like pool balls
everything is a three cushion shot
find the right angle, english and spin
maybe i fall into a pocket filled with dreams
of bosnia, somalia, rwanda and Kigali
I could sleep, fuck, eat, masturbate
you know, function, as long I avoided sober
and now dry, walking the line, taking my pills, therapy, sobriety, clear headed...
I stand out on the corner like a whore or a junkie looking to score sleep
11:55 am 40 hours into the insomnia march to the wall and once I hit it (Bless you Yeats) the ever widening gyre, the center can no longer hold and the living nightmares come to drag their ragged nails through my brain
I lie here checking roof lines, movement in windows, a bus backfires and I start to cry then rage at everything deep breathing, codeine and clonazepam
are bricks thrown into an abyss Nietzsche never thought of.