It’s 2:38am in the morning
Why I can’t sleep, I don’t know.
I usually sleep earlier than you do.

I feel the poetry spill from my fingers
Onto the keyboard
And slip through the crevices in the keys
As I stare at the tiny, ever-spinning
Rainbow pinwheel of death

I’m grabbing at my nightgown
Because, in my boredom
I’ve set my hair into curlers.
I don’t exactly know what’s the point
But whatever man

Poetry.
Why do I write poetry?
It’s a pastime. A hobby.
Something to organise my thoughts when they’re as messy as my hair when we drive through the countryside and you roll down the windows to give me some fresh air
Away from the city

I’m tired, baby.
And I can’t sleep with the demons whispering sweet, lonely, empty nothings into my head.
Why won’t they let me sleep