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Here I am at this hour
Trying to rest my tired eyes
Tuck myself under the covers
With my eyelids shuts tight
But these never ending thoughts
Kept me awake from my slumber
These thoughts that never stop
Always makes my mind wonder
Throwing me in scenarios
What I thought would turn out
If we did not walk out the door
Where we did not break our vows
A thought were we were happy
One where we never fought
But there is no more you and me
What is left are just my own thoughts
Late night thoughts
am i ee May 9
the moon started
calling to me
tonight,
from out
of my deep slumber.

whispering silently,

'come on out,
visit with me
just for a bit,
sit with me for a spell.'

she said.


had to get up,
out from under my warm covers,
out from my warm bed,

to step outside ,
to commune with her again.  

in this quiet,still
this silent, part of this night.  



Just me,
and the moon,
and
this glorious cold night!
Such relief from the inane activity
of ‘civilized’ suburbia)
neth jones Apr 24
life is vaporous
life is sleep and within life vapour I take a slumber
limbered keen and nimble I kip travels
unraveling lumber
  the annual rings a lolling carpet
   life is but a pencil sharpener
at my shoulder
                a nap sacked boulder
peppered quartz for schemes
  as an investor in dreams
                          i am larval

mumbling some verse nonsense
gavel for gorge
clouted by The Greats
the knowers who silk spin
     the freedom of sleep and the imagination
                                                            into­ rule and bard
the thirsty claws of the snared dream
the shared laws that barter with hurt
even as though we know ;
'ignorance is no excuse for the law'
seesaw
         we ****** not forward with our 'self'
we have a trust of 'no confidence'
                      and an obedience to follow

i am some frown of traveller
        and a knowledge trawler
self-made unaware
an incomplete idiot with a knot of care
life is sleep and within that sleep i take my life
and with it
          any the fool that follows
LC Feb 19
they have my heart in a chokehold.
their rough hands mold it into shape
while I am in a deep, deep slumber.

my eyes are greeted by the sun.
the white-hot pain in my chest
knocks the wind out of me.

when silence is thick, I sculpt my heart
back into its lovely, imperfect shape,
and I let it lead the way forward.
I know it's been a while! I have been busy...and coping with writer's block. I'm glad to be back, and I started a new poetry IG. Feel free to follow me if you like! My handle is @musingsbyma
There’s a heaviness
lingering
upon my shoulders

I sit and try
to regain
my vigor

Just to find
my eyes
are slowly closing

Maybe I can stay
and rest a little
longer?
© 13/02/2022
Nathan Jul 2021
At night when troubles themselves seem to weep
The rest comes hard and never deep
Sounds in the dark break the dream
Slick and stuck in tangled web
Trapped mid slumber and thick in head
The figure stands with burning eyes
Writhing closer that empty gaze
The scream won't form
My mind ablaze
Close enough to taste her breath
A burst of speed
I free my hand
Vanishing fast
And nothing left
Now alone
A stammering mess
Back to rest
This hard fought test
Watching in the corners still
The darkness shimmers
For one more thrill
Pining to be loved
I sought asylum within these pages
Every line, every word, every rhyme
Was a reflection of the sorrow that ruminated
Beyond the looking glass.
Yes, I fathomed I was alone without a
Guiding star, without a lodestar to lead the way, O, but now I am liberated
By The Sovereign of Songbirds
Who solaces me by his mellifluous musicality.
(Yes, I am free)

Soaring beneath the stratosphere, thermosphere, mesosphere, and exosphere
I saw all the suffering underneath the sun
And remembered what it was like to slumber.
Rest is something I took for granted
Feeling it was only forged to flee lament; oh, but that is only half the freedom
Of truth: Yes, we are reborn when we slumber.
So lull me and lead the way; furthermore, I am liberated.
The Sovereign of Songbirds enspirits me
By the clairron lullaby, by His voice.
(O, I am free)

Dreaming, I lost sight of all that made me human;
Limitations forgotten, I drifted heavensward. I forsook
All I held beloved.
Why must phantasy mean sacrifice? Must the fantast
Be sundered in order to claim transcendence, ascendence?
Yes, I was burned by The Incendiary Sun but
My heart has survived. It leads the way to liberty.
I am risen by The Sovereign of Songbirds who resurrects me.
I am summoned from the ashes like a Phoenix Rising.
(O, I am free)

(Se’ lah)
Excelsior Forevermore,

Sanders Maurice Foulke III

10/29/2020
cici Feb 2021
to be deeply buried under the sea,
stringing the years along in sickly slumber:
how many layers of darkness are you wrapped in
when the gravity so thoroughly pulled you under?

holding them to the gentle light,
steadily swaying like undaunted thunder
if you name them can you emerge then -
shall you do or shall you wonder?
what matters is what you do when you're awake
Shannon Soeganda Dec 2020
Feelings,
Shown—

Feelings,
Grown.

I can’t help but to
                                fall in awe
                                                   with her
                                                             ­      idyllic astonishment;

like how the moonbeam shines its ray
to lit up the darkened night sky
amongst all the unrest souls in their
                                                           ­     (not so)
                                                             ­                  blissful slumber.

I beg your pardon, m'lady—
for I have mistaken your
                                              b e a u t y
                                                               ­    for
                                                             ­      Misconstrued Paraselene.
Something is up.
                                                           Hereby, I abnegate my all to both of us.
Jas Nov 2020
When, in time, where a moment
Of intense desire tips the jar of elucidation
Sets loose a smoothly sailing stream
Down a hungry throat
To the awaiting gullet stuffed with malaise,
Can the rage of enzymes be heard?
Will the breath of despair, and the wailing brew
Of alcohol make peace in silence,
Or is the feat of the battle proclaimed in slurs?

When, in time, will the meager klinks of newborn knees
Ring as explicitly as creaks in an ancient house?
Will screams of hunger conceive compassion
Or should thee be mocked and exiled
To recover from the blithe shame of dependency and impatience?

Hear the sounds tread in darkness
Pleading, crying in the embrace of frigid walls and sterile corners.
Record the rhythm of footsteps
Echoing and fraying -
Taste the smeared sweat of exertion.
Count the patches of lost paint
Stolen and stowed beneath polished nails.

Hold me similarly while I recover.
Show me while I regain sobriety that I was caught
When, in time, I was lost in misery.
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