Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
I tell myself.
That I need to.
That I should.
That I will.
In a minute.
Just one more thought.
Just one more theory.
Just a one more daydream.
In place of actual dreams.
In a minute.
I say.
Waiting for my brain to shut down.
Waiting for it to get tired.
Drowsy.
Even just mildly less-awake:
But nothing happens.
Sleep doesn't come.
Neither does comfort.
Or warmth.
Just loneliness.
Fear.
Boredom.
Confusion.
But never sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Glass
PoetryEveryone is glass, so easily broken, so hard to fix. Warning: This book may contain triggering subjects. Read at your own will and risk.
