I look to the counting of the words.
Counting of the
minutes.
Counting of the beats of my heart within my torn chest.
Counting the notes of the melody; an
undercurrent playing out within the words that fly onto the page. Counting on the end to come so that I can
rest in dreamless bliss.
Tell the world to dream its dreams on its own
dime.
Counting on the love to push me into
another day.
Counting the minutes, seconds, until the sun rises and I can
breathe again.
Let the world sleep. I
don’t give a flying fuck about all but a few.
The few chosen beats that make this old heart bother to pump at
all. Let the world burn around me as I
relish the heat in this cold corner of my sad and twisted mind.
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