Sure Ain't Shakespeare. It Ain't Even Daniel.

There's someone who's distant in the night
curled up under down, hand under head,
waiting for the moment when things turn bright
hoping it washes away all the dread.
But even the golden rays of morning
can't push away all of the little fears
that have built over time with no warning.
Some of life's many stupid souvenirs.
That person stays curled, waiting for day,
hoping that enough small things will get better
that the little fears won't come out and prey
and squeeze and constrict like a shrunken sweater.
Always looking for a small piece of hope
to find a new and better way to cope.