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 hear me probably assumes I’m watching porn or doing something naughty, but I can’t help it. The urge burns me with fervor most foul; it is an itch I must scratch. As to whether it’s any good in the morning, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.