Channeling

It was flight. It was freedom - bleeding for everyone and letting the life flow. Did you ever see the Moon cry its pallor upon the city when desperation led to re-stitching? I hold the scalpel. I hold the sutures. My hands know what it would be like to use that power and set it free, to see the Night run and laugh. Yet I also know the fear in surrendering when the whispers come to bait, just how gleeful they are to scratch the reality and disappoint once more.

Can't sleep. Can't focus on the lollipop stutter I need to suck on to let the ghosts reprieve me. They don't like to relax for they're too hyped on the mess I run through each attempted slumber. The very second eyelashes flit upon my eyes, they crawl beside me - can't allow me much quiet- my toes feel the prickly slivers first. The itching eventually becomes managed breathing as the evenings come a' calling. I cannot have what I want. I cannot rise above and present someone something of substantial worth.

I still dream though. Most would equate dreams with actual sleep, for how can there be one without the other? I am down deep at the furthest level, far beyond REM....my brain just shoots me right into that neverland. And as I smash right into the pits many would force themselves awake from clawing for breath, I simply fall into the hands. I want it, want the suppressed orgasm dying for release to come round my throat and follow me back into the waking. I beg to send its coiled energy into the common arenas and knock off the oblivious.