Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

They tell me to sleep.

They do not know the terrors I endure.

Sleep paralysis is a wretch.
I lay conscious,
but unable to move,
to see,
to breathe.

In haste,
astro projecting to places of malevolence.
Time, space, will, everything shifting.

Completely up to Fortune.

No Control.

No Control.

Hell to a Capricorn.

The worst of all is to be always cowardly.
I am.
I am not convinced dreams are safe.
I feel all of the pain in my heart.
And I am in shock.
Imprisoned.
For Gods know how long.
Hours? Days? Years?

Every time I wake up I’ve aged.
I am tired. Exhausted. Confused.

So I fall back asleep, back to comfortable uncertainty.

Dreams aren’t so bad,
but I wish they wouldn’t be
so obscure
and I wish they wouldn’t
take such a toll.

Most people across the world cannot get enough to eat.
Thus, I fast.

My people are plagued with poison.
Thus, I starve.

My friends are crippled by their sorrows and self-medication.
Thus, I abstain.

Some are dead, some are gone, some in jail.
Thus, I am in exile.

I have broken more than my fair share of hearts.
Thus, I exist in perpetual sorrow.

I am plagued with horrors and dreams of teasing love.
Thus, I stay awake.

I pray I can find a patron.
For it will be a short window
from when I emerge to when
I lose myself to all
obscurity and depravity.
I am not human anymore.
I am just art.

I know that I am going to
wear down soon and begin
to lose all will. I will no
longer be myself but
an empty hollow shell
to which I serve as
a medium for art
to make manifest.
No love. No hate. No joy.
No sorrow. Just art.