my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

while i let my nights turn to mornings, i spend a lot of time pacing. this is something i've said before and, though it doesn't do much in the way of elaborating on the writing that's produced during the aforementioned hours, it gives me an excuse to voice disdain about my main source of time-wasting; that way, i can feel a bit better about the purposelessness i, so often, allow myself to be preoccupied with.

essentially, i sometimes have trouble accepting the fact that some people just don't care enough about anything to be kept awake days at a time contemplating the futility of their own, supposedly important, self-investments.

i think i may just be jealous of anyone with a somewhat regular sleep-pattern. god damn diurnals.

my nerves weren't born to lie dormant (they know this now)

mutual sleep
minus the dreams,
we find, is an ill-fated request

at best,
water to follow the
bottled smiles

at rest,
next to our pasts,
we'll know what our futures
could look like

how they'll
seem so so surprising-
but won't be

because
whatever we decide
to worry about
will let us do just that-

(we walk because we can
and breathe because we don't know we want to)

we'll give flowers to the air
as the weight arrives,
apologies to our shoulders for
every phone call ignored

we'll find a song to match the distraction

burn plastic and melt glass over
all questions asked

and that'll be us:

aglow in gasoline clothes
like we all dreamed we would be