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I sleep with my window open.

Finding all the warmth I need from my blankets,
I entertain the cold world,
I like the Security of a quilt,
I hide behind my sheets,
It's a cold, self-inflicted pain,

Ill-tempered air,
And idolized duvet,
Idiocy at it's best,

There's a reminder there,
Of a life that could be better,
I save myself, night after night,
With a refuge that wouldn't be needed,
If it weren't for my own doing,

I may be better off,
I knew it was possible,
But for some reason,
I chose the struggle,

Fighting for comfort,
Battling for a sleep uninterrupted,
By wind, element, rain and raging strata,

It's my own doing,
The destruction of the life I've been given,
The cold kept me human,
That's how I wanted it,

Pretending it was possible for me to exist,
With nothing but what I had bought for myself,

I choose to believe,
That life would be no better off,
If I were to just get up
and close the window;

That is my great misfortune.

jf. x