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Most of the time, I’m lost.
Most of the time, unfound.
Most of the time;
I’m wishing,
well,
to be 100 leagues,
underground.

Most of the time, I’m stuck, thinking.
Most of the time, vanished, sinking.
Most of the time;
to depths deeper,
than the Mariana Trench,
where light has never,
been seen, blinking.

Most of the time, unweeping, hurts.
Most of the time, trapped, inside.
Most of the time;
I feel ashamed, and, upset,
that, oceanic tears,
will never make, a risen tide,
of these long, deserted eyes.

Most of the time, pain flirts.
Most of the time, teased, all over.
Most of the time;
on dates, unmedicated,
in dated, conversations,
on dates, wide-awake,
and, inundated, when sober.

Most of the time, I dream of freedom.
Most of the time, I dream of peace.
Most of the time;
the dove I am, flies high, away,
to escape the closed-eyed, cag-ed fact,
that, eternal slumber’s, reaping,
will be, when I’m, finally, released.

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