Some nights, it's quiet,
But still I can't sleep
And so I talk to the walls,
Try and sing myself to sleep,

Scribble rhymes onto sticky notes
Until they litter my head,
Writing poems about nothing,
Till I'm empty,
Not dead...

Not that I wish I was,
Only that one of these days,
That I'll find something that's better,
Not where I wake up,
In a pile of papers,
Pens,
Pencils,
And ink,
With no clue what I've written,
Or where I left my left mitten...
I have no clue why that's missing.

Been writing letters to no one,
To the past,
Or the sky...

But right now they're waiting,
A neat stack on the shelf,
For someone to break trust,
To read them,
And laugh...

At the utter absurdity,
My ascape of mundaneity,

My flee from mortality,
My fear of eternity,

I'm writing letters to no one,
So will you be someone?

Just a little less...