Insomniac
Eyes of cotton between blinks and
mind draped with dirty rag cloth made
of fraying edges.
My words are being siphoned
down a drain of debilitating fatigue
and creative exhaustion.
I’ve switched from fountain pen
to keyboard because my handwriting
makes me seem like a tenured
college professor.
I’ve considered dropping the effort
and picking up a book but
the words aren’t painting their
vivid pictures and I’d rather not waste
a good plot on when I’m semi-conscious
and completely brain dead.
My bed is cat-calling and wolf-whistling
every time I pace by the headboard
and I eye the velvety fleeces
with something close to lust.
Insomnia dangles me awkwardly in that
tiresome place between longing for sleep
and being invigorated by a stream
of half-formed thoughts and thoroughly
muddled contemplations.
As they tumble and riot for attention
in the prison of my skull every muscle
in my body is groaning with annoyance
and chanting in choral a cappella:
“Go to sleep, dumbass.”