Fevered writing and dreams

The pen hits the page with force and much anguish.

The metal nib digs deep inside my skin

to reveal hidden secrets too frightening to freely relate.

One day all that I am will lay there,

bare and open for all to see

(if they only choose to look).

My mind will be an open book,

and a sad story indeed.

All the things which pile up,

which crawl around on top of each other,

will be set free.

Nothing will be left behind then;

it will all scatter to the wind

and I will be an empty shell,

unknown even to those who know me well.

Sleep beckons me.

Dreamless sleep creeps up on me,

steals my time,

revives a weary mind,

but takes my determination away.

Soon I will be better.

The weight that holds me in place will be lifted.

I will travel in the night, a cloud of thought

who’s been sifted

from the things that hold her.

We will be together there.

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