‘Those little slices of death’
What a perfect way to explain
The very nature of sleep
That I crave all the same.
I’m prevented from such rest
Because of over active thought,
Well, so I am told at least,
That’s what the therapists are taught.
The little slice of heaven
Isn’t granted to me at night
And I wonder if this is hell,
Although that wouldn’t seem right.
Thoughthings aren’t always good
I wouldn’t say they’re bad,
And though I’m rarely happy
I’m also rarely sad.
I’ve never done much wrong,
Or I don’t think so at least,
Except think too much apparently.
Ah, my imagination, my burden, my beast.
But maybe it isn’t just a slice I need
To get my rest at last,
Maybe it’s the whole damn thing,
A bullet, a trigger, a “Goodbye, it’s been a blast.”
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