I am tired. My bones feel heavy, my head is splitting with a headache. I need sleep but I can't, my body is wired with all the caffeine. I can't read, the words dance on the pages and all I can see are remnants of the day that stick to the backs of my eyes. The phone-screen keeps blinking. In a while, I will go watch a Bergman movie to feed my avant-garde intellectualism. I am too tired for poetry today. Stale tea and sadness lingers in my mouth and I realize I have nothing else to look forward to except other days like today, like tomorrow, like everyday.
I wish I could cry myself to sleep, like I did in better times when happiness was Hedwig's theme.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
