Midnight loves confessions,

Yes.

The mind has no possessions

When collecting shameful stashes of emotion.

The tears are hot and fearful

As the blanket soaks in earful

Of our silent sobs and introvert-commotion.

Insomniacs all know it;

How to buckle down and row it like a river's rapids;

Waves of fetid yearning.

But the wonder of the knowing

Is itself somehow more showing of our past-collected fates...

And of our spurning.

Oh how midnight loves confessions;

Loves the self and it's obsessions

Loves the island of Moreau's profane devotion.

Yet the tears ...

still hot,

But cheerful...

As the keyboard clacks an earful

Of our silent sobs; our introverted ocean.

I don't want to fit in

With the mighty

And the small people

I don't want to fit in

With the pretty

And the ugly people

I don't want to fit in

With the happy

And the sad people

I don't want to fit in

With the privileged

And the poor people

I don't want to fit in

With the loners

And the famous people

I don't want to fit in

With the norms

And the inherited rules

Heard, unheard

Seen, unseen

Deserved, underserved

I don't want to fit in

With the hellish

And the paradise people

I don't to want fit in

I want to hold that space

In between

I don't want to fit in

I want to fade into that space

Between heaven and beyond

I don't want to fit in

I want to be

Like I never existed

I don't want to fit in

I want to go home

Where none of us ever happened.

At midnight

when

I cannot sleep

and thoughts run

dark

and wild

and deep

and tears

inside

I cannot keep

and death

to me

seems

oh so sweet

as knife-like

pain

tears through

my heart

and rips

and tears

my soul

apart

and fills

the cracks

with angst

and woe

for actions

taken

long ago

I ask

and pray

and beg

and plead

God hear

these words

of them

take heed:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray thee Lord my soul to take --

which leads

to existential doubt

and many-layered

apprehension

does God exist

or is He just

a figment

of imagination

does it even

really matter

if there is

a something after

if who we are

will never know

what really is

above

below

till we are dust

or ash

or mist

at one

with what

is infinite..

such are

the thoughts

my mind

does weave

at midnight

when

I cannot sleep.

It is at midnight

when the words in my mind

converge into a storm

of regrets

replaying my top 40

worse moments

in living color.

So long past

repairing

yet I can't stop

creating dialogue

for what I should have said

done

knowing

I can't go back

my kisses now

hold

no power

to make it all better.

Sleepless

A rare state

Thank God

Memories fly through the

Monitor on the back of my eyelids

Guilt plays havoc

Fear wins

Shame rules

My spine wilts faster than

Wax in a candle

Burning my soul

Branding me with pain

Ghosts from the past

Parade gleefully across the

Stage of my life and the

Cycle begins once more

My mantra is all that holds me in the

Present

It was not my

Fault

Foam mellow above atlantis

chivalry a door I can’t help but hold

Sell my pain

quickest act to her dandelion smile

Yellow belly slinging misery

burger shops and idle eyes

tell me friend,

where am I off to?

I confess I am not a paragon

of any virtuous echelon.

And I have no explanation

for the TV show I stare upon

when a pillow my head should be on.

It's midnight and my eyes are on

a "Walker Texas Ranger" marathon.

I know a good guy gets beat up on

by a gang led by a don or ex-con

who almost gets Walker with a bomb.

But the good guy wins, thereupon

the next show starts in the marathon.

Twelve a.m,

Insecurities roll in.

Put a lighter to my thoughts,

up in smoke & burning.

12:05

full of doubt.

I wish my mind had a drain,

just like water in a tub, emptying.

12:10

Diverging my attention.

Looking towards the stars,

as a mariner on sea, navigating.

12:15

Thinking of you,

My wasted time, I bet lots on you,

how they do at casinos, gambling.

12:20

Too many what-if’s

I feel my brain start to rattle,

same as magic 8 balls, answering.

12:30

Recalling great memories

Laying here, replaying my past,

similar to a video tape, rewinding.

12:45

I am content.

Some times I’m not & then I am,

arguing with myself, debating.

One a.m,

Desperate for sleep.

My eyelids turn into blinds,

they slowly come down, closing.

I used to think about living. I knew I didn't have it in me, nor did I think about it seriously.

I used to think about succeeding, I knew I didn't have it in me. Nor did I think about it seriously.

I used to think about failure, I knew I didn't have it in me. Nor did I think about it seriously.

I experienced the nightmare, I thought about it seriously.

I came out the other side, and now I think more than I can possibly begin to endure, seriously.

But cannot say,

Not even to the silver-blue glow

Of the alarm clock numerals.

I don't even want to admit it to myself,

For then I would have to own

The words, or worse --

The feelings.

Feelings that the person next to me

Could never understand.

Or if they could, they wouldn't want to.

What is it about the wee hours

(as opposed to the we hours, since

this late at night contains the

vestiges of solitude) that make us

More open, more vulnerable?

It's almost like the liquid courage of alcohol.

We can admit just about anything,

As long as we have an out.

Desires dance along my skin,

And they are mine and no one else's,

Yet I lament the late-night

Wakefulness.

A curse to my brain,

This ever-thing that doesn't know

How

Or when

Or why

To shut off.

As long as I have the fall-back of the

Phantasmagorical evanescence within the psyche,

I can say things that I would not

Otherwise.