Crippled into Wakefulness
The lonely hours hers to mistaken
Her heart smothers her joy as it accelerates,
Pressure the encumbrance of her working day,
As the sounds of the morning roll over her dreams,
And the softness of the dawn light swallows her away.
😱
Sorrow rides the back of the nighttime hours,
As she wanders the hallway of sleeplessness,
Chills creep through her overactive mind,
Contributing to her nightly restlessness.
😱
Answers swoon from her grip, running in the wrong direction,
She’s held hostage as she eclipses the lonely hours,
Clouds muster the horizon of her responsibilities,
Knowing she suffering within the universe’s powers.
😱
Silently she whispers her fear into every cell of her body,
Tormented by the happenstance of never knowing,
Destruction seats itself upon her narrow shoulders,
As the seeds of doubt continue growing.
😱
Wisdom is well but her mind overrides those thoughts,
Punishing her for the invisible treatment she has on her mind,
Seldom relishing the pain of constant waiting,
As she listens to her heart, thoughts and feelings combined.
😱
She promises herself a better future tomorrow,
But the lack of the sleeping hours constantly take their toll,
Decisions abound on what is right and what is best,
As these two things dynamite the peace they stole.
😱
Warmth radiates in her direction but the chill wards her skin,
Consideration is the battle she fights on her own,
Her strength wallows in the days of yesteryear,
And she’s never lived a life so very alone.
😱
Her chest aches from the racing of her anxious heartbeat,
Hollowed with the best wishes that doesn’t cup her ear,
She claims her pride, her ego complaining loudly,
As she is crippled by systemic tears and fear.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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