The Pen and The Wind

Screw coffee and crack, 
Those tiny, great bouts of sleep, 
Are all that I need.  

Sit and sigh with a somber rake, 

While only in the company of trees, 

Ceaselessly strumming on a stringless guitar, 

With only silent whispers coming to me.                                                                                                                                                                                 

Sunlight shines from a shimmering sky,

That would rather have me in the dark, 

And I take an exhausted insomniac’s nap, 

Setting my dreams on a sinking Ark.                                                                                                                                                                              

And after years of sighing in those shadows, 

I am not now, nor I ever was,

A whole human, or even a Phantom, 

I’m something more of a lost cause.                                                                                                                                                                                

And like a unwanted Excalibur, 

I sit sheathed in a stone gathering dust,

And these solitary shadows seep into my sheath,

Infect my mind and make me rust.                                                                                                                                                                                 

And every now and then I’ll lift my eyes,

To the sky and to the trees, 

And think of harming myself in an awful way, 

Shrug and sigh, and it soon pases from me.                                                                                                                                                                  

I’m simply a childhood toy, 

Handled for a bit, and soon discarded, 

And I’ll gather dust among the trees, 

With nothing left, and so unguarded.