Insomniatic


I’m always too wired to sleep,
The gnawing itch beneath my skin
Fighting the haze over my vision.
My body wins almost every time,
Yanking me into fevered dreams
That leave me nearly as exhausted
As when I stumbled into bed.
I barely have the energy
To whisper through each day.
It’s as though the more sleep I get,
The more I desperately need.
I’m reduced to little more
Than a whimpering ghost.
Invisible.
Ignored.
I choke on my own existence.
If it weren't me,
If I didn’t experience it daily,
I wouldn’t believe such an unlife
Could possibly be lived.
I don’t go anywhere.
Can’t, really.
Not because I’m bound,
But because the very idea
Of enjoying myself just once
Is horrifying.

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This Poems Story

This poem is primarily about insomnia, as well as the roller coaster of emotions between depressive and manic spikes.