Aching for sleep

 

I feel so tired and weak,

I wish I could spell it out

in words a little more unique,

but it feels like my brain is leaking

and my creaking bones

are aching for sleep.

I would explain in simple terms

that this is more than tired. it's like

a set of grabbing hands pulling me down, 

or running though quicksand whilst 

flooding tides above are trying to drown.

 

Sleep isn't doing what it should,

resting doesn't touch the fatigue.

I can no longer do what I could.

it shrouds me in a cloak of malaise.

I thought it was just a phase,

but now just sitting up straight

leaves me in a stale state of lethargy.

I’m so drained I can’t think straight,

my mind makes more corners

than a council road planning team.

I just want to rest, give me time to dream.

 

Can't remember what feeling alert felt like,

To be honest, remembering anything

is a workout. Leaves me worn down

from climbing through the clouded caves 

of my tired mind. Can't remember what life felt like,

But I'm sure it was nice.

Now my head feels

like the energy has been drained,

the cables destroyed by caged-up mice.

 

I'm forgetting things I had already forgotten,

I keep going over the same problems,

and the answers never come in.

my head is a mess, strained through a cloth

and my thoughts - the liquid run off.

Cotton wool thoughts get caught

in the branches of an old hedgerow

But nothing that resembles

a memory comes rustling through,

just flaky crumbs of lost dreams.

Nothing flickers in front of my eyes,

only the words of a long-forgotten lullaby,

trying to entice me

to some distant castle in the sky.

 

I thought I was just burnt out,

but now I'm having my doubts,

as any fire would have devoured me by now.

I don't remember feeling alive.

I must have once had the energy to thrive,

Now I live on the fumes of exhaustion.

Somehow just able to function.

I've been on autopilot for months,

maybe years. The sound of grinding

ringing through my ears

As my mind is still turning,

churning through the heavy, rusted gears,

but the scent of burnt synapses

lingers menacingly in the air.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love & Poetry 

 

Kyle