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.