You Sleep So Selfishly
Crisscross across the whole bed, legs spread
Twisted in the bedspread
Posterior perpendicular pushing purposefully
You Sleep So Confident
Rudely dreaming the whole night, in the
Twilight of the nightlight
Incantations innocuously informed inconsistency
I’m Awake So Envious
Confined defined by the edge, legs crossed
Tightrope on the bed’s rim
Claustrophobic calamity cascading continually
I’m Awake So Despondent
Fidgeting fighting by the fringe, in the
Twilight of the backlight
Writhing woefully writing writings
You Sleep So Selfishly
You Sleep So Selfishly
Soundly Sinking Suspiciously Sleeping
Selfishly Surrendered Silently Snoozing
I’m Awake So Jealous
Zealous, Rebellious, and Contrived
I’m Awake So Jaded,
Faded, Naked, and Scribed
I’m Awake So
I’m Awake
I’m
I
About the Creator
Russell James
I think, Heaven has always seemed like an obscure concept to me, because there is beauty in pain. Or perhaps, I myself, have grown too self-destructive to comprehend such peace.
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I am not...
A lot of things have surprised me in life, but none more than the amount of times I’ve discovered I’m not a writer. When I was a child, I acted as a child, that is an admissible excuse. It’s elementary school, possible first or second grade, when we are given an assignment… “Starting with each letter of the alphabet, choose an animal and write a sentence about why you like them, and also illustrate a picture of the animal. One letter per page.” I arrive home after school to my Walkman where I left it, plugged into a variety of other electronics, I pretend to hijack the radio waves and begin my fake broadcast across the stereos of the neighborhood. My parents discover the assignment a few days before it’s due, and force me to work on it. I finish the assignment and go back to my pretend world where I believe myself to be the local radio disc jockey. The teacher gives my parents the option of having a published copy of the book I had made. I feel good. Today, it is in a box in my home, somewhere. I am not a writer.
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