When Sleep Won’t Come

Childhood nights were simple.

A small anger, a fleeting quarrel, and sleep would come.

The day’s worries, the tiny fears, the little hurts —

all dissolved quietly in the darkness.

Every heartbreak, every tear,

was erased by morning light.

The world felt small, safe, and kind,

even when sadness touched it.

Now, the heart aches differently.

Night stretches endlessly,

and sleep refuses to come.

Every memory, every mistake, every lost chance

slips quietly through the shadows of the ceiling.

Dreams do not arrive.

The room is still, but the mind races.

A heartbeat echoes like a stubborn drum,

restless, unyielding.

A childhood toy lies in the corner,

a forgotten book rests on the floor,

small reminders of a gentler time

when sorrow had a full stop.

Now, sorrow lingers.

It curls in the corners of the night,

whispers lessons in silence,

teaches patience and endurance.

Even in restlessness, there is growth.

Even when sleep refuses to come,

the heart keeps beating,

the soul keeps learning.

Perhaps, like childhood nights,

morning will arrive again.

Perhaps, after the longest night,

even the heaviest heart will find rest.

Because no sorrow, however long,

is permanent.

And every night, however dark,

holds the seed of dawn.