I took my clothes off before I went to bed again.
I cast my sheets aside and tried to forget.
But my sleepless dreams are not kind,
and no tense is clear in this undefined.
So the past and future may both collide.
I am not sure where the memory ends and the dream begins.
The springs I lay on are formed to my bones.
This room that I am within is supposed to be my own.
But the nails that hold it up,
They are not ones that I struck.
So it might fall down I don't know.
I am not sure what to rely on, and on what to hope.
Dazed on a mountain slope my grandmother wanders home.
Along the high hollow the chill never broke.
Her mother says with a drawl,
"Oh child, the lord says it is bound to be your fault".
And no house will ever again be your home.
I am not sure what pain is, or how she coped.
I walked on my own teeth through a humid July storm.
And carried stacks of paper of things I never wrote.
The paper turned to pulp,
But no words bled out to be lost.
And in a way that is so much worse.
Words are totem poles they are relics of your mind.
If you set out to look you can create something to find.
But what will slow you down,
Is the calling of the cold, cold, ground.
It is yelling out for you to just lie down.
I am caught up thinking within a dream.
I am not sure if I am awake or asleep.
My body is so hard to find,
It is on the run from my mind.
It is begging for me to decide.
When to breathe in, and when to sigh
When to believe, and when to lie.