My hands are propping up my head, trying to keep it still.
A few short meters from my bed my flowing thoughts have spilled.
They've trickled down my jammies and they've trickled down my chair
They've even stained my slipper-bears - those were my favorite pair!
Sleep comes to wipe them blank and clean, it wants me to forget,
But there is still no room for dreams inside my vacant head.
A question circles in my skull that doesn't make much sense -
If it's already empty, then why is it so dense? ;>
