Fred Aiken Writing

looking out the window at 5am and wondering why I’m up

why am I working today

of all days

why can’t I go back to sleep

why can’t these people make their own coffee

why can’t I have a moments rest

from all the noise

all the sugar pouring out each breath

and screaming children lining up for more and more

until my death

each latte wearing me down

one more day

caffeinated from start to finish

when coffee no longer has an effect

but underscores what I’m to expect

tired, broken, weary to the touch

while all I want is sleep

singing about silent abuse in the closet made of rubber

as all sound bounces through the vibration

and no one knows the pain of my depression as it sketches down

each vein

made out of thin thread poking through the skin

held tight over muscle bound to respect laws of physics

oppressed by the gravity crashing

always down

looking down

feeling down

alone and making up words to call my own,

with feelings I don’t know