Greetings, Fellow Insomniacs
Paint It Black
No sleep
We are restless pestilence
Broken promises collect like bounced checks. Never penitent
I call it “home” where I lay my broken bones
Sticks and stones, a row of disconnected pay phones
We are contraband
Smuggled through the tunnels under Wonderland
You’ve been sleeping on the job
So here’s your reprimand
We are breeding, multiplying
In the space between the walls
What you call living feels more like dying
If it feels like anything at all
Wearing our hearts on our sleeves
Seems you’ve forgotten what your head is for
My blood is on your hands
And no that’s not a fucking metaphor
We are afraid of conflict, but always at war
And we no longer feel pain, that’s what the medicine’s for