The blue black of my under eyes,
Cover my exhaustion,
As I write.
The midnight constraints unchain in comparison to the poetic link we poets share.
Seems anymore we adore a topic of sociologic preportions.
Poems diluted with gay rights, war, and abortions.
It seems anymore as I write I speak to a current condition I no longer wish to swim in, currents so strong I find myself drownin in the depths of watercooler chats and shocked by media outlets,
It seems anymore the biggest issue we ignore happens to be right out the front door!
As I write and my eyes get heavy I thank them,
The human Instincuals,
 I feel,
 out weigh the pharmacudicals
they deal because no amount of medicine can fix my humanity.
See,
My eyes have grown black in wait of a better fate but I too have given up the cause,
Instead I rest my head on pillows of poetry in the hamic of hemmingway,
Instead I pull blankets of originality over my head at night to catch dreams my native seams outlined for me,
Maybe that is the truest meaning of poetry,
Maybe that's why we praise
Poets who speak at a blaze,
And those who slow in dramatic ways,
Maybe we write to live out better days,
To experience different ways,
It's about you,
It's about me,
It's about right now,
It's about the emotion you feel right now,
 

Take a breath as this is the you-ist you you have ever known,
As I write I feel at peace
As I read I feel I'll fall to pieces.