Robbed Of Sleep
I don't know what inspired this writ of remorse,
by Benjamin Feliciano
All I know is the picture on my heart is fading.
A remnant of my 'esteemed colleagues',
Of whose goals I have no concern.
This is my own, my right to demean myself,
My cause to sacrifice for.
This is my failure.
No music annuls what has become so familiar.
Sixty four more days until I'm lost,
My heart ticks with turmoil and a sense of being useless settles in.
I've lost my only love,
Failed my only friend,
And ruined my only youth.
I feel I need to lustrate what little soul I have left,
To see if enough shine remains to illuminate my path.
Nothing makes sense like it used to,
To be honest.
New emotions of rage and envy emerge like seed from dirt,
While hope and joy atrophy like these limbs which grow limp.
It's disconcerting how disconnected I am from the diatribe of my own logic.
Every decision is flawed, every choice is vain.
Every thought is clogged, every breath is pain.
Ulcerate organs live long enough to gorge upon the memories of what once was when she was close.
The noise returns and I sleep on static,
With screams to blanket my night,
And mockery to cushion my head.