A Troubled Mind

It's difficult to sleep on a troubled mind,
on a pained heart with its strings confined.
We toss and we turn and we yearn in our sleep,
but we lay, until day, finding nothing, we weep.

We cry on our pillows that always seem wet,
and mind always muddled, a constant mess were we fret.
The ceiling is daunting as it stares us down,
while we're simply wishing for that solace to be found.

The sun streams through poorly concealed blinds,
uncovering all and showing the world all its finds.
We hide under the duvet and pray in the dark,
the stains on our pillows our worldly mark.

There's a chatter outside in the street today,
where moms and dads walk and many a children play.
But I'm watching the clock, hearing the hands as they move,
heart beating fast, its soundtrack, the blues.

Frigid temperature, the scorching sun soon settles,
along with the fading of light and the pulling of petals.
And now is the time, where I am to sleep again,
but I'll lay awake, weep on my pillow, and wish I was in a world of pretend.