I’d Hate to Be Woken Up
through shades of hot white dispassion, i learned--
like the bags the sugar man carried on his way home--
they could never get enough of each other.
nothing is harder than outgrowing tenderness
that has been fabricated in hopes of appeasing my paranoia.
even when one soul or entity is equal to the remedy
for all of the other complaints that are inspired
from the moment our eyes soak up the first light of day
to the moment we reprocess our failures just before 1 am;
i wouldn't want to disturb those stainless souls.
in my newfound philosophical disillusionment,
you are my warmth, you are my suffering.
the eternity i taste on your lips is not enough
to keep me grounded. it is not enough to blot away
the blackening ink stain that lingers on my last hopes to endure
another sober nightmare. but the sugar man's affection
cannot bound me to worldliness and its creature comforts.
to watch his hand grant an inheritance of angel dust
to the next coming victims, i cannot forget the faces
i could only adore in the most pure moments of my existence.
i must not fear the reaper.