Comatose is the Least of my Worries

I somehow thought going away would change me. Like going under water. Holding my breath. For as long as I could. Nothing permanent. Just something so that the surface would be reward enough. One big breath. Then a long, long time until the next.

Like how everything is.

Stale until you gamble with it. The clamor of slot machines between the words as I lose. And lose. And lose again. Until everything is art. Little sparkles of sleep embedded in the thick paper of life is drawn upon

The wise of the owl in bouts of somnambulism. Sex. Finger paints for the flesh. Crusty numbers heal across her skin. A rainbow of scars wither under bulbs long since burnt out.

If I could see. If I could have all the words.

Then I'd know what to say.

But I'm still waiting.