Total Knock-Out

Can I tell you about my bed?

I'll tell you anyways.

It's just so special to me.

What a wonderful place.

The one I never want to leave.

You see being awake is far too hard.

You have to do things.

You have to make decisions.

Being awake is like trying to convince a caterpillar

that it's completely legal to play tennis with a skillet.

It doesn't ever make sense.

I can't think of a better place than my bed.

Oh! I was going to tell you about that.

Imagine a mattress that's twelve years old.

EXCEPT it's worn in all the right places.

I fit just perfect.

Completely swallowed by the plush cube.

You see we bought an extra firm,

but my constant wiggling has boken it in so well.

I sink practically to the floor.


I sleep with my comforter.

There, I said it.

What if I told you I use a lavender detergent on it?

See, it's magical.

I surround myself with pilows.

Six of them.

I once read that the more pillows a person sleeps with

the more lonely that person is.

I'll leave that debate up to the awake

version of me.

She's so smart, I love her.

I wish she loved her.

The best part of my bed I've failed to mention so far.

I must save the best for last,

but I will tell you now

lest you die of suspense.

It's the pain it takes from me.

It doesn't think I should carry my pain with me 

into my dreams.

So it does me the generosity of taking them from me. 

The aches and tension I drudge through the day with.

The mental pain I store inside my mind until it bursts.

The emotional pain of deep sorrows and confusion.

All gone by daybreak. 

It's just a bed you see.

A wonderful blessing unto my body.

Please don't make me leave.

*alarm clock*

This poem is about: 



It would be exciting to know how your vertebrae are hugged by that 12 year old mattres...

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