The Sun Isn't Yellow, It's Chicken

Shifting from closer to day breaker. In between sleep is scarce. Rush and then rest? Unlikely.

I sat and stitched this Frankenstein relentlessly but you gave it that final kiss of life. The years are starting to take their toll. The miles show in the form of smile lines around my eyes.

You're only still staring because in my mind I am reloading. My phases of Narcolepsy are tied directly to the words you steal right from my mind. And every morning I play Russian Roulette with my alarm clock. Not that it matters. The shadows under my eyes hide more secrets than any amount of rest could ever coax from me.

Misunderstanding knows me by name, and it's all just searching for acceptance at the bottom of the radio dial.