Poem Hunter
My Nirvana
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My Nirvana

Poem By gertrude odelia

Sleep heals.
Sleep hurts.
Sleep is my switchblade knife
with a handle, nothing more than a sharper edge.
The harder I hold to it
the more I bleed.

The moment my head retires to the pillow
the blood begins to pool in my brain.
This is when I feel my ever nostalgic mind
frantically clinging
to the past.

Grasping desperately for something no longer existent.
I reminisce.
I digress.
I slip slowly into my eight hour coma.
My Nirvana.

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Comments (1)

Powerful Poem! Roger.