My Soul is Drunk

Another random spillage of words

What is it,

that bothers me, her,

us, about this, this being, this being

alive? 

I can't pretend that it's the morning; 

My heart beats in time to the rays of the sun and my

soul can be drunk on the possibility of light, my lovely, 

bird-notes? 

And I love the night, I don't even have to stop and think about

my deference to the act of

opening my eyes, so maybe,

is it

the lonely, the melting, the 

frigid, f*****g ugly pieces shattered, breaking, losing ground the 

only

things 

that I have left are 

price-tags. 

And even they are ripped in half. 

So what do I fear? 

Isn't it wild, that I 

can't even decide,

I cAnT eVeN dEcIdE

My deepest, darkest

painful places. 

Author's Note

I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts :)