It's funny how
most nights
I can't sleep
unless I first
spend a moment,
a mile a minute,
drawing out words
from my mind
and putting them
on a page.

I lend shape
to my thoughts
and put them
away
so sleep
can come
and numb
my mind.

Be it poetry,
or a novel,
or discordant ramblings
akin to a blaring *****
between my ears
and behind my eyes,
I must first
empty myself
of myself.

The night is my enemy
that feeds off of my
overactive
mind
that I must
empty
in order to
sleep.

But I'm coping,
I'm fine,
I'm fine.

Five hours is still
better than four,
right?

h.f.m.