I stare into the endless void of
bright liquid-crystal in my hand,
blinking 2:47 am
juxtaposed with grays and blacks
of shadow stories on walls
Wind whispers against the
curvature of my bare spine,
a small comfort in the thick
canopies of steamy heat.

I roll to the cool side of the pillow
and the blanket twists
restless around my toes.
Weightless hands trip and fall
and rueful eyes drown
as I stare at rain streaking the
canvas of my inner eyelids.

Half the time all I do is start projects I can't finish
and then cry about how unaccomplished I feel,
and the other half I lie in bed
thinking of things that will never be real
So I keep asking myself,
If I just had more time than two halves
to make a whole, would I finally
be able to get my life in control?

But now, I can gaze at rain
guiltless
for hours at a time
because I finally realized that
maybe some things are meant
to trip or fall, or even drown
to create art.