Advil and Alcohol Cures Everything
Will you please come to me in my dreams, after three and before four, when the pain is less and sleep comes best to my sleepless brain?
The pain in my mouth has almost gone with the sunrise. A root canal on the horizon, like the dawn. Three Advil after clammy night sweats, and sleep tries to claim me again.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, after four and before five, when my thoughts express my hopelessness, and my soul needs its rest?
The pain came back in crashing waves as the sun appeared without warning. Gray-pink light from the fetal position, and there is no fucking way… no fucking way.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, after six and before seven, when the sun is raw as an exposed and dying nerve?
The pain isn’t all in my body, or in my hanging head. It’s closer to my soul. And like anyone could tell you, my soul is dead.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, if I have them, after eight or nine or ten? When the sun hangs low and the night comes back, and I’m too tired to feel.
The pain is no more. It has gone the way of my soul. Rest is inevitable, if rest is what it should be called. Maybe just a break between struggles… with what’s real.
Will you please come to me in my dreams, when my dreams are the truth, and my open eyes look at what can’t be so?
A new pain. What is real. Above the lies.
Tags: advil and alcohol cures everything, Bill Friday, dreams, Expats Post, fetal position, It's Always Friday, my soul is dead, pain, pulp poetry, root canal, sunrise