Early morning ramblings

It was getting late and I was getting tired, so I decided to write a poem without censoring myself. This is the result.

The inside of my head sounds like a beehive, too loud to think.

My chest feels like a cannon ball, heavy and cold.

My lungs feel like withered balloons, flopping around above my diaphragm with no real purpose.

My stomach is yelling at me to feed it, but I don't think that I will.

My brain is yelling at me to go to sleep, but I don't think that I can.

My hand is yelling at me to stop writing, but I think I've forgotten how.

I want to insert a stanza about my dog here, but it might sound too deep.

I want to insert a  stanza about my boyfriend here, but it might sound too cheesy.

I want to insert a stanza about my Christmas Cactus here, but it might sound too Sarah-ish.

F**k it, this is MY uncensored poem that I'm writing at 1:58 A.M., I do what I want.

My dog must have had a bad dream, because now, he's on the other side of my bedroom door, crying. I know that feeling all too well. I let the poor dear into my room.

My boyfriend is 4,000 miles away and 6 hours ahead of me. And every time we end our Skype conversations, I can't help but cry, because Skype is probably the closest we'll ever get.

I transplanted my Christmas Cactus to a bigger pot this summer and now, it's bigger than I ever thought a Christmas Cactus could be. Maybe I can still grow and bloom too, like Gertrude, the cactus.

It's that time of night again. You know, when you begin to to feel nostalgic and almost homesick for your cousin, an episode of Camp Lazlo and some cherry Jell-o.

The time of night when you just KNOW that if you keep writing, you'll end up with a masterpiece.

The time of night when you know he's getting ready for work right now and you want to Skype him, just to see his face, hear his voice and wish he could hold you, even for just a moment.

And this is the part, right here, the part I both dread and celebrate-the part where I think I've FINALLY run out of words, but deep down, I know that will never happen.

And this is the part where my whole arm hurts from writing so fast for so long, but I keep going anyways.

And this is the part where memories punch my in the gut with so much force that I'm left in a pathetic, weeping heap on the floor. 

And this is the part when I finally shut up and end this damned poem.

Reviews

[Woody]

ramblings are often interesting to read. they simply spill out without you being able to stop the flow. they're usually honest and true. the thing is to refrain from reading and post right away so as not to cut out any part. the result is always touching and beautiful. I believe you achieved that.
nice one :)