I can put away the pill;
I haven’t put away my pain;
But sleep is lured to me,
As fatigue strives again.
The draining of the heart
Is a gruelling process –
a rigmarole of feeling
That affords no recess.
Four words from someone
Can tear you down;
Four words can also freely
Send in the clowns.
I want to try and see
If I can earn some sleep
Without its torturing –
Or its rest being deep.
If I can be let go,
Despite love and living,
It’s time to take heed
And start a self forgiving.
Sleep has left the building.
She has to be coerced with a pill.
She has no claims to fantasy.
She requires no story.
Give her a story
And she will stay away pursuing it.
She’s best left storyless
And thus, barren.
A pill is her fee.
She comes – carelessly –
And then has a brood of dreams.
Dreams I would rather not have;
Because they remind me of loss
And pain –
And people who won’t love me again.
Sleep smiles. I forced her with a pill.
So I am punished.
Her brood wakes me up
And the moment, I open my eyes,
She is once again set free.
It keeps threatening to consume me whole:
This dark night of my questionable soul.
Death, separation and heartbreak,
I dread to think of what else they take.
For now as the summer sun grows hot
And the very earth condemns our lot,
The fates conspire and repel all desire.
Mourning comes in the building of a pyre,
With rules and laws, medicines and food,
What should I beg for and to what good?
I cannot blame an evil eye, or sin,
For all this breaking and screaming within.
It seems hopeful to call it the forge of life
And believe in higher metaphors of strife.
I’d rather know less of grief than I must;
I’d rather seek anything else to trust.
Hearts Still Care 
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