I'm still here. Typing.
How am I still on one page?
*computer growls softly*

Far below the mountaintops
where no songbird has ever sung
lower than even the most persistent of raindrops reach
sits a tree.

No- not a tree even.
A sapling.
Not yet tall enough to be called grown
but carrying a small fistful of leaves upon its stem.

It sits amidst a darkened copse of its elders
listening to their creaking
taking in their every word
but not quite loud enough to speak.
At least- not with the towering trees above it.

But its voice does reach the tiny insects skittering
and the rodents chittering 'round it
down there on the forest floor.

And while it may not have the stature of its family
or bare sweet fruit
or give off cool shade,
it does hold a certain power within it
that none else do.

If you kneel down next to it
and press your ear to its thin bark
you can just make out its tiny voice.

But what does it say? I'm sure you wonder.
Well... I don't actually know.
I've only heard rumors myself.

Its message is different to everyone who listens though
that one thing's for certain.
Some hear the echos of their lost love
or feel the rekindling of their passions.
Others are shored up by compliments and truths
and come away with a spring in their step.

One day, I'll make it there.
And in the shadows of all those monstrous trees
I'll lay there in the dirt
and we'll have a nice chat,
the sapling and me.

Is it so much to ask
for just a tiny bit of change?
One little shift
to come from weeks of struggle
throwing myself up against a wall again and again?

It feels like I'm incorporeal.
Stuck in a state of stasis
where nothing I try makes any difference.

No matter how much I push
not a single pebble shifts.
Not one tiny stone
that might skitter down the hill
and start the avalanche I need.

I don't even have the benefits of being a ghost
whisked off this world to whatever comes next
or at least left without the physical parts of living.
I still have to go through the motions
​but never get anywhere.

The dice go rolling, falling, stopping
on shapes that mean so much more than
just numerical figures.
Heralds of luck, life, death,
delivering wounds
of flesh, pride, wealth.
Never mock
the dice
​gods.

Right now, my mind is silent.

Empty on the outside
but secretly bogged down by too many thoughts to process.

I've got a million things I should be doing.
Dishes piling up
projects half-finished
job applications to punch in and send off
friends and family to call.

But instead
I sit in the silence of my mind.
Because every one of those things has a weight
crushing and poignant
making my heart beat too fast
and my hands shake.

I can't tell if the silence is better
than the flood of thoughts.
If floating along on the very top of them is any better
than tumbling through their midst
head over heels with water in my lungs.
If distancing myself from panic is any better
than getting lost in the growing list of things I should be doing.

Silence is deafening.

Worlds end every day.

Snowglobes fall from shelves and shatter.
Anthills are flooded by the rain.
Meteors strike and shatter planets.

I don't know when this one will end.
I can only keep on living
​and hope it's not tomorrow.

I did it again.
I let myself be carried away
launched on the back of honeyed words and brilliant screens
flung off into the land of the ever-wakeful.
You'd think I'd learn by now.
But changing your behaviors
isn't ever easy.
Especially if they've wrapped themselves around your insomnia
and woven a nice protective seal
that you really don't have the motivation to shatter right now.

It starts as a sinking feeling.

You can't really tell if it's in your throat
or your chest
or the very pit of your stomach.

All you know is
something's coming
rushing at you
and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

You turn to look
and still
you can't see anything...
it's just a normal day.

But trust me.
Trust that feeling in your gut.

It'll come when you least expect it.
After you've forgotten this warning
and gone back to blissful ignorance.
It always does...

I dreamed that I wrote last night...
but I woke up to a blank page.

Not sure where the words went
or if they ever appeared at all.

Maybe they faded into the empty text box
stolen away by the techno-fae
to be savored only by them?

Or perhaps the whiteness crashed over them
an avalanche of emptiness
that swallowed them whole.

Either way, I better work harder this time
put up more wards
to guard my words against the dangers
of the world behind my eyelids.

The soothing lullaby of raindrops is beautiful
nature's way of telling you to chill out
and drift off into dreamland...

But when you're trying to type out a daily poem
and all your eyes want to do is droop
because of the white noise provided by the outside world-
it's obnoxious.

How do you resist the urge to sleep
after a day of pounding the pavement and breaking your brain,
when the very weather is against you?

If you know the answer,
let me know.
​I'm still working that one out.