IMAGINE, I SIT

Imagine, I sit
wrapped smally upon the bed
Arm curled unsatisfyingly around a pillow
Clutching onto something that doesn't clutch back
Missing the whisper of your hand on my back

MY BRAIN

Sometimes my brain is like in a race
to run as far away from itself as possible, in case
it overheats and freezes, but it never turns off,
revived by my fiftieth glance at the clock.
I'm tired again and I'm needing a friend
to slow me down with a pat on the back or a moment to spend.
Weeks pass like moments and moments drag like weeks,
how long can I go without having to speak?
I'll shut my eyes, try to block out the noise,
but sleep never comes, and noise always leaks.
I've tried to force my thoughts to settle,
but I'm always disappointed, I'm weak.
This race is like the wind, never ceasing,
and when you think it gets too quiet, there's a storm around the corner;
the skies open up, so I lock the door
and I'll sit here alone, safe in an earthquake of my own making
not shaking
not myself
or anybody else, for that matter.