at night i ask when will i relearn to love myself in the quiet hours
No Rest For the Wicked
Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high, brain bubbles like a percolator on speed, firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake, inciting me to violent turns of phrases, penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched. They say to hide one’s light under the bushel is a sin, and this must be my punishment. No rest for the wicked.
Insomnia
They promised that insomnia Would bring words Like long awaited rain, But instead it Keeps you awake too late With your distractions And makes you miss your thoughts, Then sleep long enough For the days To seem one. Insomnia only brings Diversions, Frivolity And agitation, And when that Wears you out, A sleep too black For thought to thrive. Insomnia doesn’t bring rain; It is the storm grey Cloud that teases And threatens, Then flitters away Whispering promises To come another day.
Writers’ Insomnia
I write best late at night. Maybe it’s the silence that forces me and my thoughts to spend some quality time together; a silence that is interrupted only by my fidgeting, or the clacking of the keyboard or a pencil scrawling across paper, or the lack of people bothering or observing or disturbing with their mere presence. Somewhen between midnight and 3am on a good night, when everyone else is sound asleep, my mind is full of ideas, keeping me from sleep and forcing me awake until I let them out. My suspicious mind thinks that anyone who happens to…