Staring up at the ceiling,
And listening to the silence as the words spiral down into me,
Like an episode after an evening smoke.
These words have become a part of you,
To the point where you bleed syllables and utter metaphors.
Inject a needle into your veins and withdraw poetry.

You survived,
You survived the harsh words thrown at you in middle school,
Became a martyr as you were stoned by the same words you loved.
Felt each sentence slice your skin and have your mind bleed endless characters.
So much so that when you do it with your razor it almost feels euphoric.
I guess what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Getting lost in pages of vowels and adjectives,
Falling for characters,
Because you failed to fall for human beings,
As their speech patterns are flawed
They do not speak the language of these words that have embedded themselves in your system.
So as perfection courses through your veins,
Imperfection seeps from your pores and lies above your skin.

So you will stare at your ceiling,
Watch the words create the loudest of sounds in the silence,
As they spiral all around your room.
And finally, rest in your mind.
As you fall asleep.