Devastating addiction that takes me bodily,
Numbs my mind,
Killing my resistance,
Until I can only forfeit my opposition completely.
In so many ways, it is the devil, settled upon me
Long before I know.
I have little recourse,
Simply fight sluggishly against the calling deep.
It always takes me, though, in the end,
Tumbling through that abyss,
A timeless instant,
Neither restfull nor conducive to my mind.
Devastation, each night; Such a thing can only be death
This cold chill tells me so.
Only death freezes blood,
Oppressively clutches the heart, stops my breath.
Breath that rushes back only as bitter-sweet morning resumes,
Startling me awake
With huge gasping breaths,
Puffing in death-chilled air, fading out of my nightly tomb.
Suppressing convulsive shivers of fear and disgust, I rise
Out of the feather-top grave,
Fitted, dimensionally, for me
Like a grave, so similar in metaphor and size.
Yet each and every night, it never fails, I plummet
Down, collapsing within myself,
Isolated, and so angry/afraid,
Certain that this too familiar doom will be permanent tonight.
~~ Ryan J. Brockey
This is a verse I wrote almost four years ago. I had it saved only one place: my dead laptop. Recently I liberated the harddrive from that laptop and I was finally able to recover this poem. This is one of those that was forming in my mind for a long time. At the time I wrote this, it felt like there was very little hyperbole. I still dislike sleep, but I need it so much more now. I’m getting old.
Anyway. I always remembered this poem, but was afraid it was lost. It has been found, and I am still impressed with it years later.
I have nearly a gigabyte of documents on that old harddrive, so expect a few verses from my past to show up here occasionally.