Rest...

there is a time when you like to surrender,
everything in you is weakened
eyes are sleepy and there is no glaze on
the eyeballs as though it is staring to nothing,
your shoulder hangs but no one is choked yet
the rope is still an icing of the cake
the last sound a tip of the iceberg and you
want to go to bed and rest and take some sleep
but sleep whips you with sharp beatings
you are wide awake wanting to write about all these
miseries but you cannot
your hand rests on the shadow of its weariness
your pen becomes simply another imagination
the bed hardens like wood, feel its being steel,
your back aches, yet, whatever you do
not any position does you good,
just the same your eyelids dropp dead
no one can stop you anymore
signing 30. i mean...rest.Not death.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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