Poem by gertrude odelia
Sleep is my switchblade knife
with a handle, nothing more than a sharper edge.
The harder I hold to it
the more I bleed.
The moment my head retires to the pillow
the blood begins to pool in my brain.
This is when I feel my ever nostalgic mind
to the past.
Grasping desperately for something no longer existent.
I slip slowly into my eight hour coma.
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