Night and the Coming

Every night, I toss and turn.

Looking at the ceiling, my thoughts do churn.

from one side to another, the head-to-heart duel,

Feelings get tugged, with no clear fuel.

Frozen in those awful thoughts,

eyes filled with droplets, bloodshot, and distraught.

The anxiety filled with tension starts to seep,

Filling my soul with thoughts so deep.

By the end, my whole energy is drained. I shake my head.

imitating and faking the strength, affirmations spread.

Yet inside, a self pretends,

Bones fatigued, soul near its ends.

When asked, "How well are you?"

"I'm alright," Isay and in response, I ask, "How are you?"

Yet within, a silent plea,

Bones tired, soul longing to be free.

I'll accept that I long for the days when I didn't have to explain myself to someone.

The reality is that I am an empty seashell on the shore, with most of my life drained.

I'm unexpectedly sinking below tsunamis,

I experience a hollow that might not be comfortably filled.

and that I fear that there is no way it will be filled.