I still can't get to sleep.
After countless hours of false slumber,
of daze,
my mind is still conscious,
still occupied with counting sheep
in the desperate hopes it'll bribe the oh-so-stubborn Sandman.
I suppose
I think
maybe
I just can't sleep
because my subconscious is still too
busy.
After months of nothingness,
why is it something
as simple as this
resurrects you?
Something as simple as the fabric that once clothed you.
Something so simple,
just like you.
These clothes I hold dear,
I hold close,
I hold to me in an empty hug
and really,
that's what's been bugging me.
The fact I still care.
And the fact that
I still can't get to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
I'm Fine
PuisiA bunch of depressing poems. Don't read them if you don't want to know about my dark side. Update: Oooooh so edgy, Finn
