Head over the bag, hands over the stomach. That is the picture I keep of this one, somebody who did not make it as far as the bed.
Tired
Thought
Thought
Head over the bag, hands over the stomach. That is the picture I keep of this one, somebody who did not make it as far as the bed.
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As my eyes push down my face,
Incredibly heavy for a couple of spheres,
I close the curtains of my eyelids.
Hands over the stomach,
Head over the bag,
Cold floor.
Afraid,
Words trapped inside my lips,
As they where incapable of seeing the night light.
Somehow,
I feel incredibly tired
And I do want to move,
But it's like my body just lost all its strength.
Then I turn over to watch the bed,
Eyes still half-closed,
The floor is still cold,
I still wonder what am I waiting for,
Unable to move.
Low light coming through the window,
Complete silence along the slow beat of my heart.
While my head reminds how stupid I look like,
Am I being bad?
Hyperfocused on myself,
How narcissistic can someone be?
Just keep waiting,
Because its likely something is coming,
Coming to get you,
To finally let you rest in your deathbed.
Thoughts
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Head over the bag, hands over the stomach. That is the picture I keep of this one, somebody who did not make it as far as the bed.
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The last stretch, frozen on a cold floor and unable to move while something is on its way to get you, is very close to the old tales about a weight sitting on your chest at night. Half the countries I know of have their own name for that visitor. I put the hall light on after the last four lines.
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As my eyes push down my face,