It's nine p.m. You tell yourself to go to sleep, you can already feel it creeping in. It's nine twenty. You're shaking. It isn't too late yet, you whisper. It's nine fifty, your hands are itching, and the cracks grow bigger and bigger with every second. It's ten o'clock, and you brush your teeth. Your image glowers at you from the other side, it knows what you've done. It's ten thirty, everything feels too loud. The itching hasn't stopped, your mind is flooded. It's eleven forty, your mouth feels dry. No matter how much you twist and turn, it never feels right. It's twelve twenty, and you have forgotten how to feel, yet everything consumes you. Your room is too warm for your body. It's one thirty, the room has gone silent, but nothing ever rests in your world. Everything seems bizarre, and you hear someone calling out your name. It's one fifty, and rage is clawing at your heart. You curse yourself, you curse the heat, you curse the world for all of its faults and everything it has ever done to you. Why must it always be like this? It's two forthy, and you've given up, begging for the sun to rise faster, only so that you can try again. There's no use in crying, it'll only make things worse.
It's three a.m. You don't know whether you're awake or not, so you try to sit up, so you try to sit up, so you try to sit up, and turn to check the time. Is it too dark? Is there even a clock? Why can't you see? Why is it never still?
YOU ARE READING
A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
