I Go To Sleep at Night

I go to sleep at night,

I still don’t know how to face myself,

This mess of a body,

Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.

I go to sleep at night,

I take all the pills I want,

I drink until the bottle slips my hand,

Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.

I go to sleep at night,

With chest pains,

A migraine,

And a broken heart,

Hoping I won’t live to see the morning.

Comments

Awe

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds. I was awed. Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless. When I saw you for the first time, you didn’t smile. I could only be disappointed. I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time. My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath.

The Heartbeat

Heartbeat. The heart beats and beats and beats itself up, every moment of life. Beating itself up until it cannot beat one beat more. With motivation it beats faster and faster with vigor, chanting and howling, only to collapse and beat weakly when its energy is spent. Softly it beats in our sleep. So quiet and lonely, it quietly continues to beat itself. Softly it beats when we wake, always so quiet and lonely. Beating itself up when we are sad, beating itself when we are joyful, that loud red organ. With each beat it brings us life, yet it beats itself because it wishes to die.

Spring Again

Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season. The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonfli...

The Writer's Library.

Search This Blog