Distasteful

A taste like sour milk at the back of your throat,

Dissatisfaction with what is and what isn’t,

No matter how many times you swallow, it remains,

Forcing the bend of your spine,

And your eyelids half closed over your eyes,

You morph into some half-living corpse,

Unable to figure anything out,

Except to find a grave for which your body can lay,

Yet the cemetery seems to be full at the moment,

Your life goes on, as does the taste in the back of your throat,

Taunting you of what is and what isn’t.

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Waking Up Before I Fall Asleep

Sky like a bruise out my window,

Clock reads eleven pm.

Peace of night invades my empty room.

Vision of fuzz without glasses,

And without words that fill my head.

 

Few lights on at the tire place,

Down the road a bit, to the left,

Space between the window and blinds.

Three, I think, I remember,

But I didn’t count anyway.

 

Trees still against road silent,

Which whisper back and forth,

Whisper back and forth.

And a car approaches,

Several miles down the road,

In a tiny hum that you can only hear,

If you listen.