Litkicks Message Board Archive

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Posted to Action Poetry

me and insomnia
have ourselves a language.

half dialect
and half dementia,
our conversations are motionless,


the neighbors are a pill,
soaked in dawn-light,
i hear the banging against
the thin film of the wall.

me and midnight,
have ourselves a tryst.

i am ensured silence,
and go about my affairs,
skin covered in scratches,
from late night irritations
and lack of control.

my sheets are made of meadow grass,
my conversations are motionless.