The beams of light softly reflect off of her face
She leans her head back,
With her face near the open window
And her legs bare
The moon greets her each night
When insomnia decides to strike
When she needs to feel a connection with something, anything
Fingers quietly drum on the edge of a desk,
Stress seems to be all but forgotten
Leaves rustle in the warm breeze
Her yawn breaks the silence
Time passes in slow motion-
Each movement is exaggerated and drawn out
The minutes drag on for hours
The emotions swirl for years
She paces the small room for an hour,
Before sliding into her sheets
Before grabbing a drink of water
Before trying to slow her thoughts
Before giving up and sitting down on her desk
With fatigued eyes and ruffled hair
She is forced to sit until the sun greets her
Until she can meet with the rays of moonlight once again
YOU ARE READING
I am a Sucker for Pretty Words Masking Dark Thoughts
PoetryI occasionally write super depressing poetry/ snafus of writing. I honestly don't follow any specific type (rhyme schemes, etc.) because I prefer them to be fluid. The one thing is, it's generally an unreliable narrator.
