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Array
(
[sid] => 173016
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Cruellest Illness... Denied Access to my own dreams
[time] => 2012-06-15 00:21:36
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => outside the window. it's cold. its getting so cold at night... rubbing the sleep out of my eyes but my bones didn't get any dreams last night instead I lay staring into the scenery outside and felt that usual nausea when it was morning light as all four seasons pass once more i feel every flower bloom and the winter aches and sores and in summer the nights don't stay long daylight wakes up early But it never rises before me then in spring the clock winds back i think i know what they call me an ...insomniac? its cherry blossom season, its come once again The buried bodies under them... Their blood makes them ruby red and my bottles of empty wine, my sanity, my control,my medicine for the night And i'll swallow myself sick To take the loneliness away Because in the night it hurts.. and the cruelty of lying alone; well, it couldn't get much worse She's full moon once again Luna, she's so pretty Through these hazy darkened hours She is my only company But a part of her is always hidden away The moon likes secrets And i've confessed all i can say But hers...she keeps quiet She's more of a listener, that way 'cause when it's time to close your eyes my broken mind just cannot find a dream to hold onto, and let me try to give my tired organs a break from life and theres voices screaming But i'm beyond the point of feeling And when i was young and evening came there was a prayer my mother would say ...as I lay you down to sleep I Pray the lord your soul to keep and now my soul; is tired and lost and God can't care for it The sickness is a lock The body; its immunity It doesn't serve you well All the prescriptions in the world Can't save your mind from itself with every night that passes my mind cops another contusion every slight glimmer of hope - doctors, pills the rest it's only another illusion I've read Sylvia Plath 'til my eyes burn red and finished too many bottles to rest my weary head and the tremor, the sadness, the emptiness inside confusion, and lonliness it's eating me alive when sleep is nowhere to be found the clock gets louder; it's torture! That sound. A sickness so cruel, when you're not allowed to watch your own dreams A prison of mindlessness, Never really awake Never really asleep. cherryamber, PLEASE: To help keep this site INTERACTIVE, please read and comment on at least 1 poem for each one you submit. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 262 [topic] => 60 [informant] => cherryamber [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => insomniac )
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