Tuesday, February 5, 2008

I Will Survive

The night is concentrated into
The ticking of a clock,
The peaceful breathing of my little brother
Who finishes his homework more or less in time,
The droning of crickets
In the suburban excuse for a jungle
By my house.

The room consists of shadows and silhouettes,
The sky is inky black,
The trees are blacker than the background of sky.

All is rhythmic, all is regulated.
All except my sporadic yawns
(Whose frequency and diameter steadily increase)
And the scratching of my pen
That longs to hurt the paper it moves on.
All is dark, all is unfathomable,
All except my bloodshot eyes,
And the bright white sheets
On the soft bed
That calls me.

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