I hate nights spent in solitude
with nothing but the sound
of my breath:
s l o w l y inhale,
let it out even s l o w e r.

It seems the night will never end,
but it does,
and the sun barely shows
its large, round, golden face.
I rarely enjoy the morning though,
as I know it means the start
of one more l o n g, boring day,
and yet another l o n g,
lonesome
night in silence.

I have a dream-
the same each night:
about NOT having to cry
myself to sleep at night;
but every morning I wake up,
and realize it was just a fantasy.

I do not know how to break
this chain of continuous boredom
and complete
solitude,
and I have no one to tell but
myself.

Theresa Potts

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/solitude-19/