6:24 A.M.

Night after night, 
into the miserable hours 
of another weary morning, 
I waste my time 
lying restlessly 
in a bed too familiar. 
Tiny branches of red 
extend toward the pool of darkness 
in the center of my iris, 
which, when I think of it, 
feels as if it is the center of 
my existence. 
 
In the center is darkness. 
 
The blood in my veins 
is a vital sign 
that I am alive 
and breathing. 
And feeling 
absolutely awful. 
 
A reminder than I am 
inexplicably 
awake. 
And aware. 
Of everything. 
 
Especially the 
silence. 

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