One nineteen in the morning now
and sleep, my friend, eludes me.
Breath seems as unwelcome
as a friend’s betrayal.
The quiet sleep of one’s death
seems the only escape, yet
my blood, raping its way into my cells,
renders my body a pulsing revulsion
which defies me, and leaves me
awake, alone.
-
Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: July 28th, 2025 15:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments2
Insomnia in its helplessness leaves the victim distraught and depressed. A sad saturation.
So relatable to so many, the inabilty just to get a simple nights sleep, nicely expressed and written
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