SLEEPLESS
Living with PTSD
Stemming sore shins seeking sleep
Sobbing sadness sweeps sorrowing soul
Scoured safety searching sanctuary
Silence-suiting
Stinging sensations
Stressors spawn setbacks
Sweat
Shock
Spasms
System scourged slamming self-care
Should succumb
Surely some simpler speedy serum subsists
Stubbornly staying
Surviving
Seeking salutary solution
About the Creator
A Lady with a Pen
Caroline Robertson's, books are beloved by both adults and children alike for their illustrations and engaging stories. She takes readers on an adventure, giving them the opportunity to explore different cultures, settings, and characters.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis5 days ago in Humans
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