PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Hot summer nights spent lazing in our beds,

sweat sticking to our skin,

breath coming in gasps,

and sleep escapes us,

slips through our fingers,

and our eyes seek the ceiling fan unfocused and drifting through the still and quiet room, their glint in the suffocating night insignificant,

they flash

hazel,

green,

brown,

the bags under them tinged

purple,

green,

yellow,

black,

and in empty heavy sweat slick moments

we whisper,

“Mr. Sandman, won’t you bring me a dream?”

And as the noise of our snores does not reach our ears,

and we lie awake, daydreaming

or hallucinating

of a world unlike any other,

where the colors of red and blue don’t flash and sirens are nonexistent,

where the light is pure,

where breathless heat is just a thing of the past,

where the sun never shines but night never falls,

and we dream of a new world,

that is safe,

that is honest,

that is quiet,

that is peaceful,

but we lie awake alone in our musings and wanderings,

left to rot with the ceiling fan that drifts in absent circles,

to distract from the voices that pound their way up the stairs,

down the hallway,

through the door,

into our ribcages,

so we whisper to the night,

“Sandman, I’m so alone. Don’t have nobody to call my own.”

We call to the heavens to bring us someone to carry our burden,

to bear our dreams,

to stitch them together under our skin,

to offer them up in tribute so we may welcome sleep’s embrace once again,

whether it is empty or full of half-realized nightmares,

we wish for its hold around our neck so we may release from this desolate night before we have to face the sun-blotched day once again,

with a fever breaking across our skin with

purple,

green,

yellow,

black

weighing down under our eyes and a heaviness behind

green,

hazel,

brown

that tells the story of our sleepless night,

and we make an appeal,

whispering once more,

“Mr. Sandman, someone to hold would be so peachy before we’re too old.”

Lost inside our heads that are filled with dust and cobwebs,

dirt and grime,

blood and pain,

mud and anger,

and yet we sparkle with the stained glass of churches,

the lollipops that glint in morning sun,

the rusted barbed wire on the edge of an abandoned home,

the glass eyes of crows as they screech at the sky,

our minds have arching roofs like cathedrals that are full of never minds and forgotten whispers,

and we see butterflies take flight in our minds,

their wings carving the wind as our eyes grow heavy,

as our thoughts stumble around themselves,

as our breath slows,

as our limbs ache,

and as we try to keep our sweat-slick ribs together over our sleep-weary hearts,

we scream,

“Mr. Sandman, bring us a dream.”