Counting Sheep

I think I just need to give up on this whole “sleeping” thing.

Because closing my eyes is just an opening for more things to go wrong.

Because sinking beneath the surface of my mattress feels like looking up while drowning and witnessing the sunlight slowly fade away.

I heard someone say,

That they try to count sheep but end up counting the reasons to stay awake instead.

And I have never related to anything more in my life.

Therapists and physicians concern for my health since I only average three hours of sleep per twenty four hours.

I refuse to tell my parents because there will be no coping but just endless prescriptions of medication that will fail to ever work.

I no longer feel comfortable telling the ones I love how my days are because my days are nowhere near memorable,

Because I can’t remember.

My skin crawls when I read the words my mother sent me,

Like spiders with thumbtacks for legs,

They crawl,

I feel my blood start to escape but look down to see no blood there.

I feel the thoughts in my head using sledgehammers as repair tools in attempt to repair my brain.

What the fuck is wrong with this thing?

My thoughts ask this question approximately 234 times a day.

I lose consciousness subconsciously about 2 to 3 to 4 times a day.

I wonder if my mother is anywhere near sober.

I wonder if my father is really going on a business trip tomorrow.

I wonder if the girl of which I only knew the name of is resting in heaven when her life was so unfairly taken.

30 minutes ago I wouldn’t think I’d be feeling this way.

But my words express my true emotion.

It’s a love hate relationship.

I wish I didn’t have to always write sad pieces.

In all reality,

I’m just depressed as fuck.

In all reality,

I wouldn’t mind if a piano fell on my head.

Damn.

In all reality,

My heart beat is like the beat of that angered child who gets bullied every day at school’s fists as they bloody themselves against a wall of his choosing. 

In all reality,

My state can become as blank as a picture of a field of snow.

In all reality,

I feel about as alone as a fly who’s trying to escape a household.

I really want to go to the beach,

Sit down on the shore,

In the middle of a thunder storm,

Listening to the waves crash into my legs,

And think if there’s someone lost out there at sea.

I really want to go to the beach,

While sitting on the shore in the middle of a thunder storm,

And think if there’s someone lost out there at sea,

And imagine myself finding them,

And asking to join.