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Description
Sleep: The Art of Lying and Not Thinking

Instead of relief; the promise of silence and dreams,
Darkness presents me with the feeling of roaring inadequacy.
I am the only one alive; whose eyes flicker left, then right,
Without purpose, or decision; in response to the dilemma the night
time brings me.
Respite from daylight, yet none from my thoughts
I sink to insubordinate status, beneath the stars.
My hollow existence, a silent, bleeding requiem
unto the dying sun.
I am numbed, and overwhelmed
by my simple failure at such a natural task,
I become disconcerted by my role as the midnight guard
for the sleeping souls that
slumber: unaware of the trembling of my heart.
I recoil from the waking nightmares, the ones I can’t escape,
They attack my stoic, unsealed lids
Without deviation to routine
And no exception for the fact I lie awake.
Bricked in by Angst; smothered by Twilights angry ghosts:
My eyes are pried wide open by their pinching, spectral fingers,
So, come the new red day,
I am seeing through the criss-cross of screaming, bloody veins.

It seems that even my skin finds my incompetence intolerable.
It complains loudly ever morning, in the form of black, erupting,
Hooded, awful eyes;
The same eyes that cannot close, and that flicker left
Then right,
Each night.

Description
Sleep: The Art of Lying and Not Thinking

Instead of relief; the promise of silence and dreams,
Darkness presents me with the feeling of roaring inadequacy.
I am the only one alive; whose eyes flicker left, then right,
Without purpose, or decision; in response to the dilemma the night
time brings me.
Respite from daylight, yet none from my thoughts
I sink to insubordinate status, beneath the stars.
My hollow existence, a silent, bleeding requiem
unto the dying sun.
I am numbed, and overwhelmed
by my simple failure at such a natural task,
I become disconcerted by my role as the midnight guard
for the sleeping souls that
slumber: unaware of the trembling of my heart.
I recoil from the waking nightmares, the ones I can’t escape,
They attack my stoic, unsealed lids
Without deviation to routine
And no exception for the fact I lie awake.
Bricked in by Angst; smothered by Twilights angry ghosts:
My eyes are pried wide open by their pinching, spectral fingers,
So, come the new red day,
I am seeing through the criss-cross of screaming, bloody veins.

It seems that even my skin finds my incompetence intolerable.
It complains loudly ever morning, in the form of black, erupting,
Hooded, awful eyes;
The same eyes that cannot close, and that flicker left
Then right,
Each night.