The Couch

The Couch

Quiet is the night
Hectic is the mind,
In this tiny corner
Of a living room
No peace for the soul to find,
Thoughts give way to personal treason,
A single being plays both subject and king,
Interlocked in a hostile duality,
All effort has been made,
Prayers sent up,
Stories told,
Songs softly played on end,
Abuse of drugs,
Abuse of self,
Constant consumption of alcohol,
And yet nothing given,
No closer to help,
Rest of fables
Rest elusive,
Rest escaping,
Rest in view just out of reach,
Weary footsteps make way
To the final resort,
In a haze where reality and dream dance so viciously,
They are opposed,
They are one,
Here it is like so many nights before,
The couch,
The couch of sleeping
Where rest is either found or squandered,
The couch of weeping
Where are hope is gone and lost,
The couch of solitude
Where it is evident one is alone,
The couch of reflection
Where one’s self is laid bare before them,
The couch of madness
Where the mind is lost.

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This Poems Story

in 2019 I was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. It was one of the darkest periods of my life and I almost didn\'t make it. I had a psychotic break and didn\'t sleep for over a week. This poem captures the helplessness of being in the throes of insomnia, depression, psychosis.