Night: in the MIDDLE
My arm is sore from reaching.
The dusty air that grazes my fingertips nears satiation.
Connect skin to my end and remove me from the emptiness I've created.
I sit staring at you, we're face to face.
Causing my limbs extension to go beyond your frame.
All the while, I knew this.
It is the only thing I'm connected to.
In need of HELP and never asking--arm outstretched.
I shadow you, but I don't think you can see me.
There it is again.
There I am again.
The answer to my misery.
My struggle with invisible existence.
Denying the quiet evidence in exchange for regurgitated gifts.
I know how to create my own majesty.
Currently I refuse to.
Right now, I think I'm ready.
But stop looking at me.
I mimic your way--open eyes, yet sleeping posture--
and I continue to sit.
Foolishly waiting for my wake up call,
Willing to forego my freedom.