Nights

                                              There are nights I finally cry myself to sleep,

                                              Salty tears taste sweeter than the quiet sorrow.

                                              There are nights I turn solid like a dusty brick,

                                              Sinking in a life so empty I’d prefer horror.

                   There are nights I’m out of breath, and I open the window like the cage I’m in.

                   Most nights I try not to think in bed, and even then I think more than I wished.

                                             I miss the time when at night I used to sleep,

                                             Also being able to enjoy the book I’d read.

                    I miss getting crazy summer dancing or wearing pjs at my best friends’.

                    I miss lying tired after a day to remember, not waking up restless.

                    But guess I’m not that happy chic, she isn’t me;

                    So at night I dream of mornings, and keep sailing my ship.

Está escrita en inglés porque a la poesía así lo quiso, escribirse en inglés, aunque no sea muy buena.