Go to bed

I think about this sometimes.

You talked that shit about me now you probably bout to buy it.

I write my voices down to give ourself some peace and quiet.

I tried to find nirvana but she wasn’t taking clients.

I guess I’ll try the Bible I hear preachers feed the lions.

I mean they needed bribed but the teeth are just as filed.

Sharp enough to cut the piece of mind I must acquire.

I’m done being consumed by the emptiness inside of me.

I am part alive and part disguise of my idolatry.

Empathize with when the sky was blue and everybody watched.

Tall tales telling stories of a sky that falls from off the top.

Long and boring lost the worry when inertia met the drop.

I talk like I was Socrates, I been watching Alan Watts.

Wonder what the meaning is, no knowledge of what I want.

If I lost my need to fear, would it make the voices stop?


No one’s sleeping here.

Crickets and the clock.

slam poetry
Andrew Wallace
Andrew Wallace
Read next: Poem: New Life
Andrew Wallace

@andrewnotlogan for Instagram and Twitter.

I’m hoping to profit from my existential dread. Maybe if I write something ~you~ find worth while my life will somehow transcend my mortal body and I’ll live on forever... but probably not.

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