what am i meant to do when my mind's empty and i can't sleep?
i have nothing to ponder
no dream worlds to drift into
no false realities to explore
nothing
blank spaces to fill
but i haven't any ink to spill
so delirious i think this is poetry
it's hardly even a train of thought
more a barrel of babble
usually
my mind is a jumble
of stolen
found
borrowed
and new words
but they seem to have taken the night off
how convenient
my melatonin is lacking
my words are slacking
and i still think this is poetry