I wake up from fevered dreams,
filled with woe and empathy.

How am I to get any rest,
when you haunt me in my sheets?

Everything feels bleak,
nothing's ever as it seems.

I count all and every single sheep,
but I still can't ******' sleep.

Those times where I regret waking from slumber,
because dreams appear better than waking life.

Lived, died, bled,
for all words left unsaid.

How could you say you need space - right to my face,
and then walk away?

©  2017 José