Sleep is for the Weak.

It's late.

I'm cold.

Booze didn't help and I'm still awake.

I want to find my way into her arms tonight.

I cannot seem to find my way out of them right now.

This is brutal to read I'm sure.  This kind of crappy half prose poetry.  This kind of mindless brain dumping that happens when I'm to tired and drunk to care about any kind of coherent syntax or story telling.  But I have to say that it feels good for me.

I just wish to Christ I had the ability to get the things that are on my chest off of my chest with anyone or anything other than her.  It is that strange feeling that I've only had one other time before.  That feeling that no one will ever understand what the fuck went wrong with me the way that she does.

So I sway back and forth listening to The Beatles while I write.  Like the keyboard is some kind of instrument.

And for me in a way it is.

I'm tired.

I cannot sleep.

I'm alone.

And I cannot reach out to the one I want to reach out to.

I'm cold.

I think I'll turn the heater up.

At least I can do something about that right now.

File under Vice.