Crazy Talk

I haven't slept in so long, my eyes are barely staying open, and stress makes my skin crawl, or maybe it's the cold. Either way I'm clawing my freckles off, and Benadryl is just making me drowsy. I'm staring off into space. My eyes keep glazing over, and I am lost. But I keep writing, the words are streaming together, just a blur of complete insanity. Maybe this is the best I've ever written! I'm seeing tracers now and this is almost like every acid trip I've taken. But back then, "the good old days" we call them each tiny blotter would have me wracking with laughter, and I can't manage a smile. People are talking so loud, their voices pounding my eardrums, each distinctive tone is a voice I know, but can't acknowledge because I can barely lift my head to glare at well wisher's who want to help. And still my hand is in motion, filling page after page in a little blue book. A book in which time after time, day in day out I smudge ink into metaphors and cute little rhymes, in the hopes that someone will pick it up and untangle my crazy talk words and help me make sense of it all. I think I'll put this in a chapbook. Maybe it'll convince our younger generation that "DRUGS ARE BAD". They won't have to know that no drugs have entered my body except one tiny pink capsule of Benadryl, that hasn't affected my way of thinking, only my way of being. And the pen keeps moving; writing words that tomorrow I won't understand. There are so many voices! and I need a cigarette but I can't lift my head or stop my hand or focus on anything but the blur of thoughts in my mind. Will my brain ever stop producing these little weirdness’? People are watching me, and that's not just paranoia talking, OR IS IT? How can I tell? Lord I'm so tired, mechanical even, and I should’ve slept, but I couldn't. Not last night. He was there and he hurt my spirit, my soul is still shaking, so I didn't sleep, I lay there on the couch all night. Void of tears, but crying from the embarrassment and hurt. And now I'm awake writing my own idiosyncrasies, dreaming it may one day be known as a work of art. And if it is, do I thank him for raping me and keeping me from sleep? Or do I just pretend he never existed and I am just a fabulous babbler?