I’m tired,
but sleep isn’t rest—
it’s deceit in a slumber
where starlight dusts my eyes
and moonlight tangles in sheets,
my hair fanned out
like wings of moonbeams.
I stare straight up
at a ceiling made of maps,
places I’ll never be.
I walk there in my dreams—
the ones I only have awake.
I think about how
thunder only yells
after lightning strikes,
how rain hits the ground,
making waves like tiny oceans.
this storm is what tires me,
and sleep is never rest.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
I’m tired,
but sleep isn’t rest—
it’s deceit in a slumber
where starlight dusts my eyes
and moonlight tangles in sheets,
my hair fanned out
like wings of moonbeams.
I stare straight up
at a ceiling made of maps,
places I’ll never be.
I walk there in my dreams—
the ones I only have awake.
I think about how
thunder only yells
after lightning strikes,
how rain hits the ground,
making waves like tiny oceans.
this storm is what tires me,
and sleep is never rest.
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