Poem #9: Insomnia

It’s about this time
That you realize: it’s too late.

The hours have passed in which you could have
Simply drifted away, and now,
Now you must stay awake, suffering.

Don’t misunderstand, it’s wonderful
That you created art, and words,
And colors. But honestly, was it worth
Waking up and knowing
It’s only five minutes later?

It’s seven in the morning.
Your eyes, are iron doors,
Impossible to lift.
Your head, is a dance floor,
And all the idiots
Are pounding their feet to the latest beat.

Do not cry.
It will make it worse.

The best thing to do?
Pretend that the whole time you were awake,
You were dreaming,
And you are dreaming now.
Sleep is wakefulness;
You are asleep more often
Than awake.

Now, you feel worse.
I’m sorry.
I’m not the one who made you do it
You could have gone to bed
And forgotten the dreams.
But you wouldn’t do that.

You hold in yourself,
A painting, a poem, a short story?
They are all there now,
And you?
Have escaped to their world.

Sweet dreams.