I'm so tired i can't sleep.
Everything moves in units per minute.
From day-dawn to non-stop, then repeat.

Well, i guess there's the quiet moments.
The walks to and fro.
The beauty of the crack of dawn starts is the Sun's maw, golden, yawning, lo.

But the moon comes with no respite, busy hands and nimble fingers makes for empty bellies, and lets face it. Packs of kingers.

I don't get it.
Where's the restoration?

Wall.

Now my skin itches. Im truth I'd sleep sooner if my slumber's journey left me in, not needing stitches.

Always they  come. Sometimes i fight, tho many i run. What good's a fist against a smoking gun?