He grabbed the unused band-aid and lodged it between pages 174 and 175, placing the hard-cover book on the shelf beside his bed. Words and thoughts scattered like a high school marathon in his brain, ideas that yearned to be organized but lacked the proper manners.
Work was 11 hours away, but sleep and routine would reserve atleast 10 of those hours. He and sleep did not agree on much apart from the fact that he needed sleep more than sleep needed him. He was helpless, powerless to the ominous power slumber had on him.
He feared sleep for many reasons; its gluttonous nature with his hours, the lack of respect sleep would have to his schedule, the abusive nature sleep would impose on him on nights where sleep would elude him and on days sleep would lure him. Most importantly, sleep was the gateway by which his nightmares would emerge. His nightmares are devoid of death or pain, but of longing and hope. Vivid images of love, only to awaken alone and lost, even if for just a moment.
These past couple of months have been especially difficult for him. His nightmares no longer use the alarm on his iPhone to pull him back to the emotionless reality, but would actually pull the chair of hypothetical happiness right from under him in the middle of his nightmare. This meant that his nightmares would slowly decline, like an imminent divorce, only to have him awaken to a life where he was already divorced. His chest would cave and his legs would lose motivation to accept the signals the brain attempts to send them.
This is why he hates sleep.
calling this poetry is similar to people calling Good Charlotte "metal".