My sorrow conscience
hunts me in the dead of night
lurking about in my precious thoughts,
almost as if I’d hit a red light

Itching through the cracks,
like a weed trying to find light,
making itself comfortable
invigoration sets in,
as you find yourself vulnerable

mumbling phrases and empty gazes
carrying the weight,
of a dozen stares.
you know in your heart
you’re nothing to compare

you gaze up at the stars and figure
you’re one in a million,
being comfortable means turning the red light,
green
and being your own oblivion

My sorrow conscience
haunts me,
i’ve learned to not let it phase my morals
waiting, watching, prepared.