Sleep!

When I’m depressed I go to sleep.
It does me well for awake I’m quiet anyway.
Psychosis is so beautiful yet so terrible.
I don’t ever want to wake up again.

Because whenever I’m awake
Psychosis pulls me into darkness.
So, I go to sleep! Where beauty and darkness
mold into dreamy realities and serenity.

Sleep!

What fancy projects when the eyelids drop  
and Morphean theater gains a screen  
where dormant inspiration goes to shop  
for the grotesque, or, a frivolous scene?  
 
The Muse with Morpheus will mix confirmed  
whenever consciousness slips well away  
and relentless reason becomes infirmed    
until welcome dawn breaks another day  
and sees reason to it's old throne restored.  
 
Yet with wakeful constancy now askew  
with off kilter thinking rightly adored  
for turning old thoughts into something new.  
 
And thus...a repurposing is sired...  
when dream gods by the muse...are inspired.

My dreams now come reluctantly  
and disincline to stay,  
as if an exorbitant fee  
was keeping them away.  
 
It seems that fee is misery,  
as so often it will be,  
kind of like a dysentery...  
suffered subconsciously.  
 
I would, If could, track down the source  
of muse abandonment;  
it's like I woke into divorce,  
and sterile settlement...  
 
all too, too much like death itself,  
or likewise piss-poor sleep,  
cursed by a hypnopompic elf...  
not letting slumber keep!  

Like some shit posting web child
the Morphean mind goes unchecked
and shows an id ever styled
as utter chaos bottlenecked
by the longboard of a surfing brain,
hanging ten on waves of thought,
circling vast oblivion's drain
all around a forget me not
which only blooms long after dark,
but well before the light of day
shows up to make it's golden mark,
with the power of Apollo's ray,
once more making us aware...
dream surfers love their midnight air.

Sometimes in the...la-BOR-uh-TREE      
I mix and match my words      
then truss them up exquisitely      
for all poetic nerds.      
     
Then I mélange old lexicons      
with rusty knives and glue      
and ponder naked amazons      
where I describe the view.      
     
I switch to neo logic thought      
in strange syllabic bits      
all to conform just like a knot      
around their champion tits!      
     
My midnight mind gets all agog      
for beauty in all forms      
of digital or analog      
in anatomic swarms.      
     
And then I pat each pipe dream chick      
right squarely on the ass      
to see if she's a lunatic      
for poets extra crass!      
     
Then I moved to the bonny maid     
who pays her union dues      
in every brand of sexy trade      
to daze and then enthuse!      
     
Soon the hour of the witch      
would test me when I marked      
that every witch would wear no stitch      
when they on brooms embarked!      
     
They'd come and go just as they please      
but mostly they would come      
by way of nympho-manic tease      
set to a bacchic drum.      
     
And by that beat we played till dawn      
when everyone dispersed      
except for out upon the lawn...      
one cow girl...reversed!      
     
I asked her if I might assist      
to help her from the grass      
whereat she turned and gently kissed      
my fantasizing ass!      
     
Twas then she vanished in the air      
and I was left alone      
with dictionaries everywhere      
on centerfolds I own!      
     
Which then assembled in a flash      
of harnessed solar beams...      
only to burst into the ash...    
of mad poetic dreams!  

My sister sleep and me are close
it's almost as if we are twins,
but we fight sometimes I may win
but sister sleep she wins the most.
 
My shadow she or she's my ghost
she haunts my every waking breath,
she knows me deep down to my depth
and siren like sings lullabies
ignoring all protests of mine
luring me to meet, brother death...

Stocktaking,
after sweeping up the debris of the day
events bandaged where sandman’s dust rests
in the short eternity, till morning
fermenting fruits, a plantation where the vines
produce a nectar stolen from Gods
 dark ground where the subconscious rests
its roots releasing the trauma of the day
 grey clouds rolling down the slopes
snores that cannot be ignored
resolution, of grief
cutting winds and stony ground
the compound interest
of loss as days progress
the scents, of brushed rosemary and thyme
distilled as dawn it slowly creeps.
 

   
The Demons constantly are chasing me  
when I'm awake; they never give me rest!  
Their awful glaring eyes, most horribly  
I see, as if indeed I am possessed  
by Devils from the darkest depths of hell  
who want to kill me, see me lying dead,  
who, worse, their wicked evil schemes they tell  
and put their hateful notions in my head.  
It's only when I sleep that I escape  
their torments, only then I gain release  
from agonies in every hated shape,  
it's only then that I can find some peace.  
The Demons are myself, unhappily,  
and only sleeping, from myself I'm free.  
   
👹

I didn't get the chance to dream, to imagine.
To live.
To understand life,
and now at the halfway point
I think before I find out anything.
I will just slowly die.

I can escape living eight hours at a time.
I can escape responsibility eight hours at a time
I can escape anything eight hours at a time
I can run run run.
Until I slowly die

This seems right.
To be numb.
To stop before significance.
Before recognition.
Hiding waiting
The end will come.

Yes, It will come.
Incrementally.
Eight hours at a time.