The Crest of Unrest


I can't get out of my own head.
Tossing, turning, finding no rest.
Maybe sleep is for the dead.

Hollow darkness lies with me in bed.
It screams & howls, it's an uninvited guest.
I can't get out of my own head.

Visions come in blue and red.
On insomnia hill, I'm at the crest.
Maybe sleep is for the dead.

I recall todays words, everything said.
Regret consumes me, guilty at best.
I can't get out of my own head.

I feel a great deal of blackness and dread.
At this very moment I do not feel blessed.
Maybe sleep is for the dead.

Perhaps you'll choose someone better instead.
He'll leave you astounded, truly impressed.
I can't get out of my own head.
Maybe sleep is for the dead.

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