Rest is a far away dream I can never attain.
Not to be ironic,
I mean sleep is a hard net in which the goal keeper has golden hands.
Fog rules my brain with an iron fist.
A job fit for a king
Who's tyranny rules over the kingdom where my bed exists,
Memories like film reels, keep tick tock ticking away,
Reminding me why my pain still lives,
or what her hair smelled like,
or my mother hiding her tears while we sat in the dark,
because the bill came and her wallet exhaled dust and not capital.

Counting sheep only shows each mistake I've made jumping over a fence that was built with the ingredients of my broken heart.
Each day is a mission, to keep my eyelids from slipping.
I drive away from all my problems while they have unlimited frequent flyer miles.
Beating me to each destination before I had the chance to say,

"I couldn't seem to sleep last night."