"No, not again..." I cried to myself,
As I buried my face in the palms of my hands.
As I clenched onto a lock of my hair in each fist,
And slowly but surely loosened my grip.
So many nights in this dark room of mine,
Repeating this ritual from one night to the next.
Sometimes I pace, sometimes I drink,
But most of the time I just sit down and think.
I think to myself...
What is this, a curse?
My punishment for all my sins and misdeeds?
My refusal to believe in a man called, "God"?
For biting the hand from which I did feed?
No.
"It can't be..." I whisper in fear.
"If God does exist, he wouldn't do this to me."
"I wouldn't be cursed with such a terrible plague."
Then the demons awaken.
Just like every other night.
Forcing their way into my room every night.
Forcing their way into my head every night.
Haunting me until the sun shines on my window.
They hold my eyes open.
But I force them shut.
They whisper my thoughts,
And their voices keep me up.
Silent and still like a dark shallow pond,
But sleep refuses to rescue me.
And when that sun shines,
It's a sight I do dread.
A sight that reminds me of these mornings in bed,
When the battle is over and the demons retreat,
Into my head as I lay in defeat.
Now that it's over, I continue my day.
Keeping my curse and my demons at bay.
But even then, I dread every night,
When my demons return with a vengeance to fight.
Another poem about my sleeping disorder.