Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

There Is No Hope Of A Cure

I set fire to myself,

in my sleep,


Pouring out all my rage,

swimming under the sheets,



nestling into night time,

and the freedom it brings,

being blissfully unconscious,

until I hear a good night,

returning home,

and I recall,

being young,

being eager to enjoy each night,

in case another one didn’t arrive.

I am tired,

as I lie awake,

not sure if sleep will join me again,

not sure if I just want my own company,

for a couple of hours,

as the good night goes to bed,

with water,


and regret.

If you’ve ever wondered,

why I sleep so much,

then you should know,

I am tired.

I am tired,

of seeing this world sometimes,

and so,

I sleep,

to escape,

to distract myself,

from escaping entirely,

and even now,

I know,

you don’t know that I’m being honest,

and I’ll never tell,

in case you send me to an escape I do not choose.

I was not made for the wards,

or the morgues.

I was made for a meadow,

that exists,

only in my mind.

A place I’ve never been,

unless I dream it.

One day,

I might move there,

and you’ll stand over my bed,

exclaiming disappointment,

sadness and regret.


you won’t,

but I won’t know,

with my hair braided,

brain dead but happy,

flying through fields of wheat,

like an Austen heroine,

or a disgraced prime minister,

rested and restless,

as I explore newfound imaginary freedom.

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