Sleep lies
just past shut eyelids,
yet remains out of sight
from a wide-eyed stare.
It sneaks and slips
just out of reach,
almost there
in a short moment before
the fall or sound or
memory. The promise of rest
is a whisper of sweet nothings sent
from shadowed corners-
it fades when faced.
Slumber speaks with lips
so soft and poisoned;
it says things like,
“A lullaby will make
everything alright,” but
sleep lies.
Sporadic insomnia does not work well with an 18 hour work day.
Other than that, life is super.
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
1 comment:
Yes it does. When it's tongue drips with false statements of hope, and promise... ... ...I want to just kick him in the sack and roll over. Bastard. XD
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