...When slippers laying still on the floor look like charred faces of deceased infants and the cold wind of a rainy night sound like death whispers from my secretly admired wet dreams, I've lost it...
THE NIGHT HAS ROBBED ME ONCE AGAIN.
Sleepless nights
Tired to death
Let me rest
Not what my demons heard
The ceiling spirals
A bottomless hole for a floor
I want to sleep
Yet whispers of horror, of guilt
Hell on earth, hell follows me
Isn't my cries enough?
Or else the many years I'll die before.
Every night she lies awake blaming insomnia, but it's her troubled thoughts manifesting into gory hallucination that keep her restless. Dreading the night, wondering if she will ever find peace with her mind...
YOU ARE READING
A Bed Made of Spiders
Non-Fictionpoems and pondered thoughts about my self-made agonizing world
