When I was little,
A itsy bitsy child.
My Mother would sing me to sleep,
She found the nights she didn't I would thrash in my sleep.
Tossing and turning,
Kicking,
Punching and screaming.
Haunted by me dreams,
But the nights my Mother did sing.
The night was peaceful,
My dreams were pleasant and full of sweetness.

Now my Mother doesn't sing me to sleep anymore,
And my dreams are rarely filled with pretty fae and unicorns anymore.
All I do is thrash

- M