Cold, quiet, insomnia buzzed in my ear like locusts of Revelation
Pressed upon my existence
The room around me is dark, foreboding and threatening morning sun
Everyone around me must be dead, unless I am dead myself
Longtime suffering is no longer sympathetic
In the year of my thirtieth birthday, I embrace cold calculated silence
I listen to the blues. Edgar Allan Poe is my only friend
My middle name too is Allen; or is it Allan?
A common misspelling, anyway
I wish my name was Muddy or Sonny or Junior
I wish I had a past. I wonder if I am in the past
Time goes by; tick-tock, tick-tock
The blank page scares me
I stare upon it the same as I stare upon the future
I could write my own ending
Not a suicide of a single gunshot or a leap
Not romantic, but ugly and real
Not in words like “unsuspecting”, or “He was a good man” or “We never saw it coming”
But more likely in words like masticated and malignant
"He smoked and drank with reckless abandon”
Insomnia is unforgiving
Insomnia takes with reckless abandon, never considering compensation
A force upon this earth
Like westward wind that carries smoke and smog
Innocent in motivation but deadly in its unrelenting force
Together with the wind, I am propelled towards the future, the truly unknown
© Copyright 2017 Kyle Stead. All rights reserved.
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