I hate how I can't sleep at night.
Why does my body put up a fight?
I yawn like I'm gasping for air.
So I lay there listening to "The Prayer".

Pulling out a pen helps me sleep.
Rather than imagining and counting sheep.
My spilled ink allows me to create a universe on a smooth surface.
Like Van Gogh with a canvas.

I write till my face hits the table.
Every night is the same, so I stay up planning my next travel.
Sometimes I'll wake tearing a page off my face.
I'll read it then throw it straight into the fireplace.