I can’t sleep.
My mind is a mess.
Every moment I’ve lived.
Every memory I have.
Every experience I’ve been through.
Is coursing through my body.
Screaming to get out.

As if I was dreaming while still awake.
In front of my eyes are projected,
Images as clear as a movie on a screen.
Can’t tell reality from fantasy.

Poetry is a drug.
Its an escape that I can run to.
Always. Whenever.
My mind, always composing.
Sometimes things I want to write
Sometimes things I don’t want to write.
But I’m an addict, so I write them anyways.

There's a war in my head.
Raw thoughts,
still jumbled looking for shape.
Sentences with no sense
fighting in my head.
Riots of ideas,
wishing to be expressed.
Waves of words clashing against the feelings put into them.
An eternal minefield.
A loudness that only a few comprehend.

Therefore,
I can’t sleep.
My mind is a mess.
So I’m writing this instead.

The clock reads 2am before she finally falls asleep,
Her eyes are red and stinging,
Her feet are ached and swollen,
She can feel the sleepiness radiate around the room.

She always finds herself here,
At this godforsaken time,
Like the late night is an expectant lover,
An expectant lover from whom she cannot escape,

This time of morning is not friend to her,
It's is the time of voices and doubt,
When the thoughts she tries so hard to escape from,
All to often come out to play.