I hate nightmares.
The eyelids set the perfect backdrop
for those heinously colorful, all-encompassing
scenes of dread,
of heartbreak, anger, pain.
Only released from their iron grip
by the sound of fear escaping
from sleep-parted lips.
To feel cold sweat
beading between tired chest bones
pooling in the valleys of your clavicle.
To bolt upright,
screaming helplessly at the nightshade phantoms still lingering
in the dusty corners of your vision.
To wake up alone,
craving anyone (or anything)
that can hush your trembling body and tell you
you’re alright,
you’re alright,
you’re alright.
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC
I hate nightmares.
The eyelids set the perfect backdrop
for those heinously colorful, all-encompassing
scenes of dread,
of heartbreak, anger, pain.
Only released from their iron grip
by the sound of fear escaping
from sleep-parted lips.
To feel cold sweat
beading between tired chest bones
pooling in the valleys of your clavicle.
To bolt upright,
screaming helplessly at the nightshade phantoms still lingering
in the dusty corners of your vision.
To wake up alone,
craving anyone (or anything)
that can hush your trembling body and tell you
you’re alright,
you’re alright,
you’re alright.