I
Wet the Bed, Like Federico de la Fe
Insomnia-riddled
night
Torn
and tattered soul
Like
old negligee
No
peace in my mind
No
piece in my bed
Nothing
in the moon
Or
night sky
It’s
during these sleepless spells
I
feel most alone
Which
for a recluse
May
sound appealing
But
it is also
During
these dreamless nights
That
I find myself faced
With
the only instance
I
am not ok
With
being without
In
fact I’m something of
A
child clinging
To
his blanket for
Sweet
life
Terrified
of shadows
Monsters
under the carpet
And
Michael Myers
Hiding
in the closet
How
I’d kill for
Long
fingernails to write love notes
And
draw pineapples
On
my back
A
cool hand to run
Over
my body and
Quiet
the fireworks
Bursting
in my brain
How
I hate myself
For
knowing they’d
All
be gone in the mourning
With
these thoughts.
No comments:
Post a Comment