No Sleep for the Weary: a short poem
Laying there on cold sheets,
he clenches the bed and grits his teeth.
He can't sleep. The demons haunt his dreams.
Every time his eyes close, he screams.
No he cant take it. He's up and pacing.
Ripping and tearing his shirt, he's facing
his demons every night that he sleeps.
No need for alarm, his life shrieks.
He'll goes into a daze for days
and lay there with his pen on the page,
hoping one day they'll understand
through the ink spilt from his hand.
His brain's not healed.
When nightmares are alive he can't feel
apathetic to pathetic ordeals.
"Who cares if I kill or I steal?"
Life's hardly even real,
when all you've known is death.
The only time he breathes
is when his pen's pressed.