No designer sheet in the world could make this bed mine.
Am I lonely or just alone?
May be it is kinder to be quiet.
I have always found myself to be poetic
Having a flair for words, imagery.
But these days I find it hard to write enough to mask this pain.
I tell me its all in my head.
Perhaps it is.
I cant make myself sleep past an hour anymore.
I have ink stains on my pillow.
I just lie here among bits of paper and crumbled thoughts.
Its no wonder all the best were insane .