Awake.

[Certain]

I never much figured myself for a ghost,
but transparency apparently develops alone.
I'm an open book, hopeless crook enveloped and stoned,
melodramatic and one hell of an addict.
I've leveled with loans,
but I'm better off broke.
My method in madness is wrestling sadness,
desolate moans caressing my throat as I'm stressed and I'm battered.
But you'll never quite shatter the rest of my hope.
I incessantly coax my head to the stone
but the sleep never comes, the eye sockets turn to gum.
Chewed up and spit out like the rest of this dump.
I'm buried by nothingness, confessing to none,
writing letters in Notepad,
the computer fan hums.
And the capillaries in my eyes start to burn as they burst.
I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed. I'm not depressed.
Take a turn for the worse.

Turn off the lights.