An Insomniac Poet
I’m called weird because I have many words to say,
many words to relay, many words to play,
rather than these games and girls “men” play
Because
I hold everything close to me, close to me.
So close you could say that it’s a part of me.
I am myself and everything I love is [a]part fromof me.
Words after dark tend to keep my mind scrambling
I call my friends my family,
and just like my family, they are distant to me.
Away from me in their dream world.
Away from the reality that is so twisted and quaint.
And here I am
Awake, lying down.
Mind full of regrets, thoughts of doubt, and eyes of “weight”
because they can’t “weight” until they fall into the dream world they evade.
Happiness is right around the corner, but it’s coming a bit late
for an insomniac poet named Ken, the boy who constantly waits.