sleep.
and if it still doesn't make sense
I'll spell it out for you:
I feel slow and sluggish
as if I'm having one of those dessert dreams
where no matter how hard you try
or how fast you run
no matter how hard you churn the sand
you can not reach the oasis
I want to live
but it is so easy to succumb to a warm blanket
and the comfort of a familiar mattress
as it caresses the edges of my being
it is so easy to tell myself that I can live tomorrow
and instead pass the time unconsciously
comforted by the curve of my pillow
I want to live
but it is so much easier to let my soul die
YOU ARE READING
deleted drafts of poetry
Poetryfuck standards, fuck expectations; anything is poetry. everything is poetry.
