at night
before the night has come
when, in bed, I wait
for the sandman’s call
the gears of my mind
turn, lurching from inactivity
and whirl about
sending steam and smoke
everywhere
and my head will hurt
with visions of the future
seeming abysmal
if only for me
for others are happy,
successful, even famous!
but for me,
I am alone,
angry, and forgotten.

this is the nightmare
that returns to me every night
making me pray
that I will not wake up
that I shall die in that dream
that reality should be something better
than that hazy vision

in the morning
when I wake up
from a long night’s battling
with my deepest and best-kept fears
I feel the poison of doubt
draining out of me
into a puddle there
on the floor

and days
and months
and years
and centuries
I refused to clean up that puddle
and each morning it grows larger
always sicklier than before
yet still I do not grab the mop
or vacuum

during the day
I try not to get left alone
that mind
that creates those nightmares
still lurks behind my eyes

it seeks blood,
my blood,
in the form of insanity
because even it knows
that it’s mirages aren’t real
but it knows it can drive me to them
if I am weak enough
and he can convince
me