Night: in the MIDDLE
My arm is sore from reaching.
The dusty air grazing my fingertips nears satiation.
Connect skin to my end and remove me from my created emptiness.
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.
This is my connection.
In need of HELP and never asking--arm outstretched.
My shadow is upon you, but I don't think you can see me.
There it is again.
There I am again.
The answer to my misery.
And the end to my struggle with invisible existence.
I enjoy closing doors,
Denying the quiet evidence in exchange for regurgitated gifts.
I know how to create my own majesty.
Right now, I refuse to.
Right now, I think I'm ready.
But stop looking at me.
I mimic your way--open eyes, yet sleeping posture.
I continue to sit.
Waiting for the alarm,
And willing to forego my freedom.
Mr. Intentional - Lauryn Hill