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.


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