Poetry archive from the mental hospital

Winter storm in my bedroom

The rain is pounding with the weight of wolves
My bed is a sponge,
and I, a puddle in its center
My frosty tears are welcomed with the rainfall; they are returning home
There is no escape from the blanket of gloom above
I wouldn't try to run
The bitter bite of the storm is numbing
I wouldn't try to run
It feels so good to feel nothing at all