Today is Sunday and as much as I dread the hours it possesses, my only comfort is that it will all come to pass.
And tomorrow will be Monday and as fast it goes, Tuesday I am back where I started, pining for another day of supposed peace.
My days are spent waiting for nothing in particular. Patiently waiting for something I cannot see. It gets under my skin, this pointlessness.
I wish I could cut it out; remove it. But it is elusive, as I tear my skin apart looking for it.
Why am I doing this?
It doesn’t matter,
Not now, not anymore;
At least not for a little while longer.
Because it’s the only thing that works,
It just does.
I can’t sleep.
Then again I don’t remember a time I could-
Close my eyes and hope for a better day.
As I always do,
A sinner praying for a miracle.
Stuck in an endless loop of
Of poems I hold close to my heart,
No more a reminder but a lesson learnt.
A stepping stone to a brighter future;
There is a certain peace in poetry.
The last few sentences of a prose or words to a poem,
Bringing closure we were never acquainted.
The shaking of our world of finally being free.
The sigh of the heart after all it’s anguish.