I want to write poetry, but all that comes out is prose. I want to make friends, but all I end up with are acquaintances, at that. And then that gnarling nocturnal creature that comes out with the moon whispers to you consistently and convincingly: You are alone.
Quick – before it can reduce you to tears you better race to pop some pills and go to bed, where hopefully that bug doesn’t bite. It has become a routine to try to avoid the night. But sleep is a slippery bastard: and it doesn’t come to those who seek it.
And my mind is too alight, distraught, emotional and alive; and I feel inspired and wonder foolishly if maybe a poem could take off the edge – but all that comes out is prose.