Poem: Day or Night

Evening falls and I feel relieved.
Night means the day is almost over
and I made it through another one again.
Even though night is
the worst time for me,
the scariest time for me,
the loneliest time for me.
I'm not sure when it happened,
but lately I've been scared
to go to sleep at night.
I've always been scared of Insomnia;
Always been cursed with Insomnia.
Now, I'm scared to sleep,
scared to Dream.
I sleep during the day, now,
enjoying my naps,
while fighting my guilt
for bringing the night closer.
The night I dread
and look forward to
simultaneously.
As the night wares on
I fear the coming day.
The day I'll be exhausted from the night.
But how can one force oneself to sleep?
I can't.
The fear never ends:
Day or Night.
But evening always relieving,
dawn always too soon.
Loneliness makes more sense at night,
it's easier to make excuses for.
Alone all day;
the Sun melts any excuse,
exposing my meager,
lonely,
fearful, existence,
for all it's worth.
The pit in my stomach that asks,
"Where's my friends,
where's my lovers,
where's my life,
what should I do?"
No answers echo back at me,
from my small, white, walls.
Time passes.

Poem: Our Stew

The Stew is Stirred;
it's not ready, yet.
The meat still pink and raw.
The chef refuses
to clean the shrimp,
throw away their shells,
clear their intestinal tracts
of Shit.
Though we are both hungry,
now,
some would say starving.
I know better than to eat
raw stew.
Having wretched it before,
broken-hearted and puking
for months.
Stirring the Stew;
Smelling what wafts to the surface.
Looking for an excuse to eat it,
to taste it even.
But no, I'm too Old for that.
Damn Old.
And this Old Body can't afford
any more sickness.
Starving or hungry,
it matters not.
Bitterly Old; I know too much.
Keep cooking,
young chef,
keep cooking.
Let me know
when you're done
with our Stew.

Poem: I Miss Her Still

I Miss Her Still;
Maybe I Always Will.
Out of Nowhere
I Burst
into Tears.

Though it's been Half a Year
It's my still deepest Fear
that we'll Never
be Together
again.

I Remember Eight Months,
with My Throat Full of Lumps;
When She Wouldn't
or Couldn't
See Me.
And Despite All the Others,
my numerous lovers,
it was Her
I Most Wanted
to See.

Then There was The Year
That I Ran From my Fear
And a Dollar Each Tear,
I'd Be Rich.

But the Truth Still Remains
That Together We're Pains;
While I act a Prick,
She's a Bitch.

So I'll Dream in My Soul,
That Before We Grow Old:
She'll Be Selfless,
I'll Be Healthy,
We'll Be Married,
We'll Be Wealthy.
And I Pray
My Tears Turn
Into Gold.