Tag Archives: insomnia

*after the edit* late night ramblings.


So many failures and recriminations fill your heart with stalled frustration now that rumination has had time to give tongue time to taste. And you’re tastes have changed from vanilla to the strange, but as you count that change a blessing, you give pause in your confessing that those bestowed have been a curse. For better or for worse it seems, has stolen pocket holes in dreams and through those ripped up seams of jeans, you’ve seen the universe. And the end, it may be coming. May you be seen as one becoming. Something worthy of this earth. Since birth.  Always pushing, pulling chafing. after stars you have been chasing, and in your grasp, you’d face them, before letting fingers loose. Your truth. It is yet to be discovered. So excavate, uncover, `fore you’re interned in turn.


Know your mind



B 12 and caffiene

Replace sleep

My blood stream

Has run thin

I yawn deep

Across my day, my cracked eyes sweep


Fool’s golden heart

A hero to no one

And everyone’s fool

I’ve followed my heart

And lived by its rule

So what it mayhap

Lead me astray

And bring me to mishap

And makes me portray

Myself in a new light

Within my own mind

High time for a new sight

To let me define

This thing in me humming

And sounding as pleas

That sets me to falling

And skinning my kneas

Another sleepless night for me


Warrior, Poet, Lover

Anyone can know me,

I’m written out right here

Come on in and read me

Revile and revere

This twisted little pixie

This vapid vapor dream

Read quick or you might miss me

-I rise above like steam

And steaming teaming loudly

I cry out loud for you

I bear my wounds quite proudly

Like warriors often do

See this one comes from loving

And this, and that one too

And I feel the next one coming

And that one comes for you


Written tears

I don’t wanna sleep

Don’t wanna dream

I cannot quite keep

Together at seams

I wanna go run

Or break down and cry

Turn face to the sun

Or take up and fly

But the night is too cold

My children asleep

So I write untold

Secrets and weep



I want to speak quite plainly

Give voice to what I must say

I want you to come out and reach me

I want-to do the same

I cannot speak more plainly

Than what’s given here to rise

For wants and needs won’t save me

As they’re so often left denied

fucking birds


Birds birds birds

It seems I am always a bird

Whatever is written,

That’s what is heard,

Just birds, birds, birds.

Maybe they see myself flying?

Maybe they hear my voice sing?

Maybe they see me as broken?

Ground-bound and flopping and nursing a wing.

But Birds birds birds

Whatever be written

It’s always just birds

Tiny birds, birds, birds.

Sometimes in gilt-wrought out cages

Sometimes they’re soaring above

Sometimes they write out their rages

And others it’s tender and painful in love.

But still birds birds birds

Whatever is written

That’s all that is heard

Stupid birds, birds, birds.

But I’m not dumb-covered in feathers

And I’m not so tiny and frail

Don’t tell me it’s you I can’t weather

Cause warnings like that have old-gotten stale

not a poem


So I took a sleeping pill to kill the insomnia, I laid in bed watching the words in my head tumble and flip like acrobats as my mind raced around them snatching them from the air… And I couldn’t sleep. Counting the hours and the poems that I’ve written, I see that my days are numbered if I have very many more like this, I’ll simply die from exhaustion and frustration. My fingers cannot type fast enough to keep up with the words that are drilling me, and I feel like I’m having a simultaneous up-and-downswing. I feel like I’m being torn in two. Elated one moment, like the high you feel when you first fallen in love… And devastated the next, like when you realize that it’s not meant to be and you left staring at you hands wondering “what now?”. I’ve been writing so much that I haven’t even taken the time to measure meter and correct mistakes. And mistakes have been made. Or have they?  I’m not sure. I just know that I’m staring at my hands and wondering at them: “what have you done?” like they’re somehow little culprits, responsible for the directions I give them. I wish I were catholic so I could go to confession and have my whole life absolved. Unleash all that is me and all I have done on some poor aging priest and walk away forgiven and clean with so many Hail Marys and Our Fathers in my pocket like talismans to ward of my anger and guilt… O` “brevity is the soul of wit”, and yet I keep on talking… I must be addlepated. I catch myself humming and smiling to myself and my memories and I frown in frustration, because shouldn’t I be angry at the things that I remember? These things that keep me awake at night, running full tilt in my head, tossing rhymes and emotions around like so many many many jugglers balls? And I cannot let them fall lest I fall asleep. “To sleep perchance to dream? Ay there’s the rub, for in the death of sleep what dreams may come”? (forgive my transposition) … I am like Hamlet tonight, uneasy and contemplating heavy things, and so those bardic words come unbidden to my mind like cryptic answers to my lonely queries. If only I knew what questions I was asking. You see, “God has given me one face, and I’ve made myself another” (switch of pronouns), and so often I switch between the two, I’ve forgotten which was which and which spoke first. But I know who’s speaking now, “the head is not more native to the heart”, and my heart’s tongue is thick and jumbled in a cryptic full on stumble, and “frailty’ thy name is woman”, so that should good well show… that I’ve stopped making sense, and I should be in bed.