A deafening silence settles,
Leaving only dust and some movements,
Rustling in the sheets, tossing and turning,
Trying to get some sleep.
But where is the peace in the silence
When all you can hear are
The whispers, an illusion,
Yet there is nothing to be heard.
Slowly, out of reach,
My hand tries to grab
What is left of my own sanity;
And every night, I wish it were over.
I don't know. I suck at writing poems but i have no one to talk to, anyway.