Is it okay...?
My sleep-glued eyes open to heaven,
Sun-lined-gold-bronze-back-of-you-breathing even,
The summation of my aspirations for this lifetime,
Is that okay?

I think I've reached that point
where

Feeling. Anything. Hurts ...

Listen,
I need to tell you something, I might be sinking
I love you, okay?

Quagmire

Sometimes my thoughts grow far from me, 
Like branches from the trunk of a grand oak tree,
I look up at them; they seem another entity,
I watch them and tire from this incredulity,
Elsewhere voices, my voices,  echo,  'could this be me?'
The space inside my head is a crowded place I cannot leave,
Wandering I wonder detachedly, the running reel,
A thought throbs in the background,  fleetingly,
Could any other but it's own flourish from the trunk of the ol' oak tree?