Wednesday, May 7, 2014

It begins in solitude at 3 am
When drum rolled thoughts
beat against
moments grown long,
and moments forgetting

When the zzquil kicks in
and shreds away on the
mattress where you lay,
like clowns without sound-
Clowns without music.

Those moments not mentioned
when you finally get it
and there’s nobody there
in the kitchen to witness--
It is in solitude at 3 am,
It is,
   and the motherfucker 
always wins.

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