The passive hostility of the waking world
Makes me too sick to get out of bed
If I pull back the curtains, all that will
Be there is a blood-sun trying its
Best to blind me and burn out my retinas
I might as well just go back to sleep
There’s a peace that shapes the dark
Just the blankness of a cacophonous mind
Awaits behind the veil of closed eyes
I remember when I used to dream
Poetry Overdose 