coffee grounds staining the rim of the cup

tick after tock of the endless morn’ clock

early light not yet woken,

day not yet here,

battling again fear after fear.


the how’s and the why’s swirl round my head,

the when’s and the who’s won’t let me to bed.

question by question

and thought after thought

pounding so loudly

their steps through the dark.


alone with myself before dawn has come

the only sound the silent mind-hum

of my consciousness whirring

through hours of night,

leaving my body

to its sleepless fight.


I can’t sleep. And I’m pretty sure I know why. I, uh, didn’t exactly eat last night. At all.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. Because I feel guilty as hell about having restricted? Because I want the comfort of some stranger out there whom I don’t even know but who just might care anyway, since I’m tied up in being the caretaker for every fucking body else in my life? Because it’s 5 am and I have nothing else to do? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I mean, it’s not as if I’m a stranger to insomnia. It’s just that tonight (today?) it’s particularly bad. But there’s a part of me that craves the tossing and turning, the endless rolling over and checking the clock minute after minute to find that it’s barely changed. It’s almost like a form of restriction, insomnia. It makes me feel strong, in some disordered, twisted way.

And then there’s the artist in me that loves it. Creativity just seems to flow at night. I often get some of my best writing done at 3 in the morning when I just can’t sleep. Passages flow from my fingers that turn into short stories or journal entries or whole poems later. There’s an artistry to the night that just can’t be tapped into during daylight hours.

Insomnia isn’t entirely a curse…

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