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.