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If only I could put into words the depth of me screaming during restless nights that linger on my eyes and continue even when I ask them to stop and let me be peace, they turn me and sounds unheard shake the existence of my wanted solitude, but I know, I know that what I ask for is this, the relentless conscience that loves the despair, I want the self-loathing, the desperation, the diluted sanity in a paper cup on a blank screen, in a black room that only changes where the lights falls, I want the bottom that reaches beyond the rocks and lifts the rest of the earth, I want understanding of what that force is, that I can have it and power an unreal struggle that I dream of telling. But I fail even in failing, I'm desperate for fleeting hope to knock me from my bed and let me ware down my gears. I want to be capable.