waiting, wanting, machine

the mist of the morning,
the day your in.
the moment spent waiting
nights spent avoiding God,
the demons in my bed.

dreaming of waking up with him
and feeling nothing.
just taking up space
leaving a mold in the
sheets.
like a pile of clothes with no body
to occupy.

and if theres no soul..

my body is a machine
running on its own
waiting to crash, rust
sin or scream.

and my bones wear my skin
to look alive,
my blood makes it blush.
and the depth that
is with in
flowing out like poetry,
is just the script used to communicate
what is with in.

we still wake up wondering
if we should believe.

we still wake up
wanting
waiting
needing
and knowing no end.

and here we are
doing the same things
we’ve always done
and getting the same outcome,

our world knit together,
the threads of insanity.

you still wake up waiting
for something
to save you

you still wake up
with fire
and nothing to burn.

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