Tossing, turning, tossing, turning
can't seem to get a good night's rest.
Counting sheep 'till you're out of breath,
maybe it's suicide for the best.

Watching the clock move ever so slowly,
I can feel the numbers laughing at me.
Darkness everlasting, dawn that won't come,
how much longer will sleep be eluding?

It's the small hours that kill,
when you can't sleep;
even though you're tired.

It's the slow words that kill,
poisoning your brain;
emotions touched by a wire.

Flop on over to the other side of the bed,
surprise that it's so lonely?
Picture frames show you together,
but reality is so apart.

Gripping you pillow tight for wishes,
where are you now, when you're all alone?
The sun brought such happier times,
but like all things, it never stays the same.

It's the small hours that blind,
when you can't sleep;
even though you want to see.

It's the slow words that deafen,
poisoning your mind;
when you need to hear.

09/24/2004

Posted on 09/25/2004
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