Howling winds and fierce storms of thought
Derive me of slumber,
Insomnia has become more acquainted to me
Than fear's nasty encumber.
I think and yet not remember the pleasures and delights of life:
Tsunamis of joy
Hurricanes of sadness
And a flood of others that annoy.
I am not in full loss of sense
As the color black constantly blankets my pupils,
Yet the earth blankets my body
Panic blankets my brain,
And hope is anything but haughty.
My fingers
Oh,
My aching joints and limbs
I am left in agony, encased by a meager box
No room to breath
Nor even pull up my own socks
Nay do any forms of escape my mind foresees.
The shovel-bearing man passes by
My only visitor's appearance is not routine,
And I persist to feel forgotten
Meeting others a dream.
The sweet wine of life
Remains my only sustenance-
The small bell atop my place of rest remains
Untouched
Unrung
Forgotten,
Never to be undone.
Buried alive?
Goodness, no, who said I can?
I was buried dead,
Like any other man.
There is irony to my dreadful situation
My explanation to you is dire-
Oh, look, the sun's just retreated-
You'd better find shelter,
My dear,
For I am a vampire.
YOU ARE READING
Tomorrow
PoetryThe following is a compilation of poems and short-stories written by yours truly in the past years. They have been edited for any grammar mistakes but, as stated, these have been left mostly untouched from their original forms, and many have been wr...
