The plight of that rise

It starts from the bed,
The plight of that rise. 
The blighted device, that clock
Telling mother when it's time.
At first gently, entreating, suggesting
"Wake up now, it's time"
"Can't mommy, I feel sick"
Her hands on your neck, your forehead,
So eager to debunk your diagnosis 
"Get up," she says 
"You're not sick."
But mommy, what about my head, my heart, 
My numb body, that refuses to get up? 
What about that voice, 
Telling me to just stay the same? 
What about them, mommy? 
I'm sick on the inside.
"Get up," she says 
Shouts, after a while
You pretend to be asleep
Oh, the plight of that rise. 
She waits, being a mother, after all
But only to spew threats later
When that blighted device, that clock
Tells her it is time. 
You pick up your broken will, 
Shattered from the effort
Of keeping to bed.
And you get up. 
Victory. Oh, that sweet victory
The joy of beating down 
The Devils inside. 
But that nagging feeling 
Still there, deep inside
Rising to the surface, now. 
Won't you please lie down?