It tethers us to the bed,
It thunders down on our heads,
That sharp, sleepy shard
That slows us down so
And steals pieces of our spirit
Until our old self is lost.

It may morph into Misery
Or other beasts of burden,
Awaken the anxious ones
Who fret in our frenzied minds.
We can fight them no more,
So we recoil from reality instead.

They leave us shackled
As they taunt and cackle
At this sorry old state
That we have collapsed into.
And so they’ll prod and pick apart
Leaving no torment unturned.

The choice is ours now,
To combat back for control
Or to stay their hopeless slave
In this war of the wits
That will rage on always
Until our self comes back to us.

Like this poem? Read more in my first poetry collection, ‘The Awakening’, avaliable NOW!

Paperback – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Awakening-Selection-Poems-Stuart-Peacock/dp/1911476335

eBook-: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B017BZBH6M


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