Five Thirty AM.
Tossing.
Turning.
Unable to sleep.
6am wakeup following.
Hurt.
Again.
Lots claim to be my friends,
When it suits them.
But at this point I’m always ready,
For the feeling of a knife,
Sinking into my back.
They never have the common courtesy,
To stab me through my ribs.
Eye to Eye.
You Come At Me,
You’d Better Come Correct.
Eye To Eye.
