The mournful grief I survive, as my being drifts, is unbearable. The morning is the furthermost distance from the serenity that only sleep can bring. As the day wears on, my vigor pours out. My mind becomes befuddled, and my heart wishes for an eternal sleep. Today I’ve awoken weak in spirit, hoping to find relief. My thoughts race through my mind like a flock of birds without direction. Is this a poem, or random thoughts that I now collect in my mind? What is the point of my writing? Groping franticly, for a solemn, peaceful place, to rest the bitter howling winds of my soul. Writing is a sandy oasis, on my journey to the night. The water is bitter sweet. My thoughts, pains, struggles, and breath are that of a confused heart.