Insomnia

This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on. See I have counted eleven score and ten, with rainbow like curves of my neck - contemptuous beasts leaping in formation each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes; A narrative for the night sky. My hands clamour at keys for escape until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast it has ensnared the whole world wide - millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world; a new ultraviolence against humanity. I beat my words into the screen until it breaks; shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti pouring over language as if it were a compliment. My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts like tight constricted muscles aching for release. 3am casts these philosophies into horses, whipping them into shape and speed before the eyes of this statuesque voyeur. This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance; suggestively fingering tickets to ride like cleavage. Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement; as my mind trips over fallen heroes wades through my favourite mistakes in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall while the world beyond my window remains dark.

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Written by

ellen-joyce

40 / F

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