I lay in a bed that is too warm,
while the inner wind is too cold
and the sounds of rain, echo through my ears.
I lay here, adding up my worst fears.

I have stress gnawing on my fibers
and a cancerous depression leaking through my body.
I bury my face into the firm pillow,
serenaded by sorrow's solemn fiddle.

I'm unsure what to do: to scream or to cry.
I'm running on fumes, too empty to decide.
I think often, but I find no release.
The silence, apart from the rain, is closest to peace.

What hath thy wrought?
I cannot understand what or how to feel.
I'll toss and I'll turn in utter frustration,
knowing that I lack the answers to my deep contemplation.

You may question if you be so bold,
but the answers I've given have already been told.
So, now I lay, in my uncertain blight,
hoping for another chance towards that beacon of light.