Sleep is for the weak 

There’s a pain

That always lingers

That causes the shaking

Of my fingers.

More than ever, I need that singer.

More than ever, I need that drummer.

The twitching of my eyes

The pain I very much despise

Makes it’s way up and tries

To reach my mind and ruin paradise

And pollute it’s ocean even more

And give it gift cards to the Dollar Store.

But what’s the point.

Those gift cards—they’re useless.

Useless things

Nobody cares about.

Which makes me question if I’m even alive right now.

There’s a pain.

In my stomach.

It’s hard to describe

It’s kind of like Rosemary’s Baby,

Not satanic, but instead derived

From the darkest parts of my mind.

There’s this pain

In my brain

Like an ice pick

And with every lick

I die even faster .

The woman who does it

Has a smile plastered

Onto her face.

And a single sheet of lace

Covers that face.

She’s broken, too.

But I still refuse

To believe that is true.

Because broken can’t be inside of you.

This woman is depression.

She lingers in the corner of my room.

She never really leaves.

She never lets me sleep.

And when I try to count sheep.

After each one leaps.

She opens my eyes.

And tells me, “sleep is for the weak.”

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