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elianaPoems
I am so tired. Weariness   aches in every *****   weighs on every limb,   drags at every thought. My face is haggard, drawn and gray. My eyes are burning coals   sunk deep into the dark pits of their sockets. My muscles clench in terror,     as I panic at sudden noises     and unexpected physical contact   but they burn with exhaustion   and I beg them to stop   before they tear themselves apart   and me with them. My movements alternate   between sluggishness and flailing desperation. My mind races with paranoia,   strains to differentiate perceptions from its own creations,   abandons both reason and reality. But still I do not sleep,   for the fear that preys upon me constantly in my waking hours   runs rampant in the night, And in my slumber   I cannot clench my muscles to fight,   I cannot run,   I cannot even attempt to differentiate nightmare from reality. Thus I flee my own consciousness,   running from sagacity   while still dragging my reason behind me. It stretches,   tighter and tighter,   until it snaps, And I go mad   once again.
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Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Snap
I am so tired. Weariness   aches in every *****   weighs on every limb,   drags at every thought. My face is haggard, drawn and gray. My eyes are burning coals   sunk deep into the dark pits of their sockets. My muscles clench in terror,     as I panic at sudden noises     and unexpected physical contact   but they burn with exhaustion   and I beg them to stop   before they tear themselves apart   and me with them. My movements alternate   between sluggishness and flailing desperation. My mind races with paranoia,   strains to differentiate perceptions from its own creations,   abandons both reason and reality. But still I do not sleep,   for the fear that preys upon me constantly in my waking hours   runs rampant in the night, And in my slumber   I cannot clench my muscles to fight,   I cannot run,   I cannot even attempt to differentiate nightmare from reality. Thus I flee my own consciousness,   running from sagacity   while still dragging my reason behind me. It stretches,   tighter and tighter,   until it snaps, And I go mad   once again.
"Write drunk, edit sober."-Ernest Hemingway I think I'm incapable of sobriety.
eliana
Written by
eliana
American
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
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