Not quite a poem, but more like a stream of thoughts.

Five In The Morning

Fists rattle—well,
everything does, I see.
Wasting breath is not,
never was,
like oceans scraping stones:
something worth watching.
Ode to my love, who is
breathing (wasted).
Sour and quite delectable
is the taste, I found,
in her touch, that
fiery break in my flesh.
Good riddance to being good!
Certainty was never my thing;
but I am certain I’ve lost.
Track, track, track—
the winding path does not
end.
I can say I am . . .
No. Can’t say it, which
I always knew.
Still shivering, cold
in ninety-one Fahrenheit,
and it hurts. Stab!
No, that feels good—
what is a word for pain?
Quitting?
Maybe.
It’s better, I think;
but I always think wrong.
Incorrect. Missed again. Fucked up.
My light bulb IS shining.
Could be why I sweat so?
“You’re a lunatic!”
Surely you’re not just noticing . . .
Where did my sweet go?
In a drawer beyond,
where my man says
she’ll stay.
I do know
the wrong feeling of
being wrong.
He says I’m addict—
what must it be like
to be right?
I am not a junkie.

Wow! That's a huge stanza! xD

Once again, your poetry shows the rest of us how far we have to go to be at your level.

I'm so jealous.

O.O

That was inspiring! ^_^