Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Dead (Tired) Poets' Society

Still no sign of the sandman
And the ticks of my cheap IKEA alarm clock
Mock my sleeplessness and fray my nerves
The hours 'til its rude awakening grow shorter
As I become more likely to see sunrise
From the wrong side

I'd offer my kingdom for a good night's sleep
If I had anything to offer but a red bottom line
Instead that crimson ink conspires against me
With its compatriots in stress
Those things personal, temporal and academic
Join the clock in my cognitive chorus

The sandman is a fickle bastard
Were you to ask me
More adept at torture than a hundred sadistic --
Curb my thoughts, my words, my temper
Anger only fuels each cigarette butt
Crushed against my skin

So I release the detritus
And strive to be a depressed person
Who thinks happy thoughts
14,000 things and counting
Waiting for internalization
And a covert glimpse at the sandman

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Sleep. It is swell.