all i can hear is the ticking of the clock,
though i'm halfway certain there is nothing but silence.
i would much rather be in a trance than here with such a horrid creature.
you ignite my every being only to
blow it out.
my head is pounding like a child
on his mother's locked door,
yet it feels so light -
like sickness and pleasure have never loved each other more.
your insolence is what keeps me up at night,
though my poetry has become next to
nothing without you.