Night story

Here I write from the darkness of my bed 

The dim light of a nearby tv and the constant sound of rough breathing 

Here I lay, here I hate, here I dare

Just writing to let the words flow, not for a reason, not for cold
just to have you know I write sometimes, you know!
I figured a long time ago this is me now
and still at times I can't see who I really am

The week is long and the days slow
but I certainly hope I get it done
the projects in my head are not as big as they should
nor what my head should focus on
but ideas come and ideas gone
my head is what I made and what my brains accomplished

I may be silly and shallow but what I like is what I love
If I should faulted is beacause I am shy and selfish
I wish and I want, most of times I come first and
my head always tricks for it to be

My vices and passions, my love and notions
my words and voices

and still the question remains
Oh, Dear psychologist who it is you are talking to?
who do you think, what do you think,
where and when do you think I am?

From the mind of Cogliostro