Ode to my Bed

photo from Pinterest (Goodnight Moon)

In my solitude, my bed becomes a casket

cradling the phantoms once called dreams.

Palace of comfort or prison of chaos-

haunted by the time I so easily waste,

even when I desperately will myself not to.

I long to make a difference in the world

or more simply, in my own life.

Instead, I sleep.

I once thought wanting something bad enough

was assurance I would get it.

I was wrong.

I am still alive-

I am still trying to find something worth living for.

The weight of all I am and all I could be chains me to my mattress.

I lie in bed, so still sometimes

as if the greatest sin I could commit is to draw breath

from a world I give nothing to in return.

I have nothing worth offering anyways.

The blood still rushes, unbidden, even if I will it not to.

I feel my potential festering between the rivets of my teeth

and underneath my finger beds.

Decaying with desire,

as darkness is gentler than reality.