On these lonely nights of fruitless sleep,
where my insomnia kicks in and worries slither from the
depths of my pillows,
I empty the bottle of cold, and effervescent oblivion.
I drown in the seas of sensations, vivid, stark and stale
as the tickling and the watering flush down my clogged throat;
flushing secrets I had not dared to voice.
I dwell on my heavy eyelids, waiting for the curtains
to drape over the ghastly blares of reality.
The world is muted, my ears are deaf to words not spoken
and laments suffocated to the howling airs of my torment.
I wait for the storm to cease, for the gears to run but my
weary mind is dulled and perplexed to horrors of past mistakes.
So, skittish and condemned, my heart disdains;
committing the same scenes, reliving atrocious crimes.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
On these lonely nights of fruitless sleep,
where my insomnia kicks in and worries slither from the
depths of my pillows,
I empty the bottle of cold, and effervescent oblivion.
I drown in the seas of sensations, vivid, stark and stale
as the tickling and the watering flush down my clogged throat;
flushing secrets I had not dared to voice.
I dwell on my heavy eyelids, waiting for the curtains
to drape over the ghastly blares of reality.
The world is muted, my ears are deaf to words not spoken
and laments suffocated to the howling airs of my torment.
I wait for the storm to cease, for the gears to run but my
weary mind is dulled and perplexed to horrors of past mistakes.
So, skittish and condemned, my heart disdains;
committing the same scenes, reliving atrocious crimes.
Sorry, but not.
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