Chewing on a concept, lurking like a night owl. Pain springs from my eyes and I touch but don't grasp. Faking a pillow, I hope that this quiet will last. The past couple nights these eyes haven't closed. Maybe it's something more but nobody knows. Consciousness and hurt are pervasive and bitterly cold. I was hoping eventually these feelings would become old. Like fresh wounds they sting and take long to heal. Raking my brain for a numbness that is so sweet. I turn to a darkness recluse in blank sleep. Downing the pills to make it possible, condemn myself to dreams probable to permeate my waking and make it like ice. A numbness that takes away thought and throws it to vice. In drugged stupor my dreams take a fervor that only rebels the psycho elite yet still in this sleep, I find peace. From the waking. From my madness in all it's making. My pillows are the only ones who are witness to my tears. And my blankets, the only ones to my deepest fears. In the light of day my face is solid, no emotion and that's how I like it. That's how this life is. Unfeeling and the safest place for me to be is inside myself. Until I know how to live without my crowded medicine shelf. For now until then, with these pills, at least my body will find rest. As for the brain, it'll run itself until it finds death.