I sit upon this bench pondering the mistakes of yesterday.
Watching the tides sweep away the imprint of any progress I made.
The air rippen with the smell of salt pondering all I sow in my bed...
For no weapon can oust anything not even this bow.
My sheets are damnit by fluids of stress and tossing.
Remembering subconsciously all the stuff im losing.
Turning this way and that banging my head on the pillow where I sleep.
Counting sheeps isnt even helping as I lay tossing and turning.
Hoping that as I sit as this bench it will help burn away my doubts.
The footprints gone yet my worries still prevail.
The tides crash again and again on the rocks.
Pondering jumping off the docks unable to endure the pain.
Now with the recognition of my life being so vain no longer.
Now as I lay in a dampen bed tossing and turning.
Knowing that the worries of yesterday will continue to hunt me as I sleep.
I now weep what every it is I made upon using my sheets.
Which each toss and turn the bed continue to squeak.
As the sun rises in the sky to the east at the peak of the horizon.
No funny dreams r blissfull thoughts just a bright sunny day...
Of all the sins of tomorrow I will carry.
Notting every buried when we make this bed.
So it truelly said be careful of the stuff we sow...
Because in the end we shall know it us alone that shall lay upon it.
In which we can be the only one to sow, as well as lay upon the mess...
We made.
