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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Late night contemplation. I was going to keep this to myself, but ultimately decided to share.

Submitted: November 12, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 12, 2012








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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