a night writer

 I type as others sleep
feeling the cracks on my skin I dont know anymore...
who I am..
pasta...tomato ketchup... a little fetta
he's sad today, its not just about fridays
and I ve made it worse
even though I didnt mean to,,,
sometimes I dont know what hes thinking
but I certainly know what hes not
and hes not thinking I care as much as him
maybe he thinks im wicked
maybe i am
shouldnt have bought that cornflakes...
feeling like a big cornflakes box now but with pasta inside...


i type to remember incidents i nthe day
lately my words are becoming a true journal
something to amaze me cuz i cant amaze myself
wondering where my life is heading, cuz its driving me
 I will always wonder why the girl in the yellow cardigan
left the world , even though I was jealous of her and thought
her yellow was ever so bright - but it turned out she wasnt shining
hard enough - and her sunshine only dug deep


i type to try and smile others but it seems saturns in the way
he frustrates me because i want him to be fine
other wise i wont be - now light is forever broken
and all her youth and life is just... gone
for the sake of one ... silly boy, whos just as lost as she is
im heartbroken at this new appearance of untold mysteries
yet visible to the eye , and black to the core

I type to try find myself, looked at myself through a long mirror today
and couldnt imagine what I saw
mama saying theyve all given up now
soon faithful will give up too
its the usual
pasta... ketchup... a little feta
these days I just cant remember anything

..............