Untitled Poem by William F. De Paula

Sleep, is what i do best
so good in fact, that nothing from it can be take
neither creates something worth make
but it's in this period of rest
that swept away is all the pain in my chest.
It comes back as i wake,
hitting hard and merciless without a break
and away it cannot be cast.
Live this way, I've learned to
but not a day goes by without feeling it,
still wishing to know, what am I expected to do?
Another answer that I cannot reach
It's not in the horizon, neither above it in the blue.