My Insomnia is a ****.
He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm.
When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen.
But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone.

My Insomnia is a patient man.
I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets.
I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door.
But he shoos them away when they get to close.

My Insomnia is a jealous man.
He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands.
He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping.
He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises.

My Insomnia keeps me in a prison.
I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away.
The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep.

My Insomnia is a cruel man.
He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep.
The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed.
But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter.

My Insomnia is an *******.
For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed.
He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn.
To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me.
My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair.

My Insomnia is a spoiled man.
And he always gets what he wants.

When you say insomnia,
people think you’ve had too much caffeine.
That it’s something you’ve eaten that day.
That maybe you’re just a little stressed.
Those people do not have insomnia.
Insomnia rolls off the tongue.
It is a noun.
It is four vowels and five consonance.
It is staring at your ceiling at
four o’clock in the morning praying
to God that maybe you’ll sleep tonight.
Insomnia is knowing ahead of time
that you aren’t going to sleep tonight.
It is drinking four cups of coffee at 1:30
in the morning because your eyelids
are so heavy they feel like anvils
are holding them down.
It is seeing shapes and figures in the dark
that aren’t there.
Insomnia is dying a little inside
every time you see the sunrise.
It is watching the moon reach it’s pinnacle
and sink beneath the earth.
Insomnia is your mind working at the speed of light
and taking sixty years.

Insomnia is running a triathlon without training.
It is wondering how long your body
can take the stress before folding in on itself.
It is wondering what the hell is wrong with you
that you can’t function like a normal person.
Insomnia is taking pills that almost make
your waking nightmares look like children’s play
compared to your sleeping nightmares.
Insomnia is having waking nightmares.
It isn’t the inability to focus.
It isn’t easily fixed.
It isn’t something you deal with.
It isn’t caffeine or something you ate.
Insomnia isn’t just a noun.
It’s a disease.

My insomnia is back
Mind is outta whack
This isn't really poetry
But I think you know that
Thoughts of something heavenly
Looking back on past memories

*******, I need to do something with my life
I write poetry
and have written a few stories
Tried programming as well as screenwriting
which I enjoyed immensely, but it costs too much money!
So here I am, back again with a poem
Another form of a story
I like it a lot
and have been writing them for about six months
And I'll write them again and again
Until my heart stops beating
Does this have meaning?
I don't know, it's rhyming
So it must mean something

Anyways, I don't know what to say
I thought I had it today
But in darkness comes the devil
His presence ever so powerful
Telling me I am special
But I struggle, yet he smiles
Saying that I have potential
Which I can't even fathom, not in this world of mine
That I'd like to abandon
Nah, I'm only kidding
It ain't too bad
No idea where it's heading
But I'm glad
Because I hate spoilers
Just as much as my handlers

That's a joke, I ain't controlled
I would go on and on
But I ain't going down that rabbit hole
My time is on a tight schedule, I don't got all-day
Another joke, ain't that funny?

You are wasting time though honestly
Reading this poem filled with much variety
Quite interesting though, wouldn't you say honey?
Yikes, a major yikes
That was pretty cringe, but hey
You're alive! maybe lost a few brain cells
But you already lost 6 billion from reading this poem
Ain't that swell?
You should see no difference though
You're already dumb
And quite frankly, appear to be a major eyesore
You look like something from Mordor
Now that's a joke

I'm sure you look great
A person that all should appreciate
Perhaps someone with heavenly energy
Something I wish to duplicate
But I can't, because I can't escape
Not from these snakes
I have a role I must play, which is fake
So many roles, so many faces
All  of which I can't break

I don't even know the real me, what I want to be
I thought I enjoyed writing
Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy writing poetry
But I don't really have that same feeling
When it comes to writing stories
What I want in life is to be free and happy
No worries, that type of thing
Writing poetry makes me happy
But it isn't stable, it doesn't bring money
What other thing is there besides poetry?
Maybe I'm being naive
Maybe I need to sacrifice some freedom
To have a stable income
But.. that isn't me, oh, I see!
At least I think
Help me, please

Yeah, this was one wild poem
If you can even call it that
It might be random
but that's okay
Insomnia made it whack
But also made me open about my current problem
You know, me not knowing what to be
Will poetry ever save me?
I suppose we will find out
When I wake up
From a deep sleep.

Hi  my name is insomnia, there is an expression I like that says ¨ the city never sleeps ¨ guess what neither do i. Because my name is insomnia and I want to spend all my nights talking to you. My name is insomnia and i think we could stay up for one more night. My name is insomnia and I won't let you rest even when your body aches for sleep and you long for rest. Because I am insomnia  I may not be good for you but you´ll always stay. Because I am insomnia and I will never let you close your eyes because you don't want to miss anything that happens at night. I am insomnia and you will never rest with me.

Living under time management ideas
As if the decision was ours
Night time seems never ideal
No time to question  schedules or hours

Insomnia has chosen me
Ignoring these standards
And if it was on me
To chose her or not

And if I had the power
To decide my living fate
I would still be married to her

Because insomnia keeps you awake
She loves your eyelashes
Moving up and down
What else could I choose
other than those who love me?

And insomnia will keep you awake
No intention to bother, maybe
No intention to creep down your tense shoulders

And still
I would choose her
Sans hesitation
No other temptation

Because Night time is for the hungry
Night time won’t tell you you are wasting time
Night time is the ring insomnia carried the day she proposed

And so I sometimes wear the ring
It’s cold and simple
Nothing interesting for those
who have decided to dream
with their eyes closed

But to me, night time has no boundaries
The ring fits us well
The poets and the thinkers

But beware because this ring is also carried by the harmful
They steal the ring off a thinker once in a while
They are silent and could be watching you
Not owning their personal marriage to Insomnia
Only thinking to commit selfish acts
Waiting for you to forget about the ring and the vowel
Waiting for you to manage the little time He’s told you own

Beware of being awake too
He could confuse you with the harmful man
Because you are awake and only those who chose to ignore the imaginative scarcity of time are made to start a revolution for life

So sleep tomorrow, or the next week
Because tonight is all you have guaranteed as your thinking time.

I have been in a relationship with my insomnia for four years
Have been on and off with my inability to sleep for as long as I can remember
Know him so well
That trying to avoid him
Is not even an option
His persistance so strong
That I have given up all attempts to leave him
Instead I attempt to please
Feed him with too many thoughts
And late night conversations
Provide him with anxiety
And reaccuring nightmares
It is easy to love something
That has practically become a part of you
Easy to get attached to something
That knows your weakness
Time and again
I have tried to end things
Pursued alcohol before bedtime and medication proven drowsy
But somehow I always come back to him
Let him convince me that sleep isn't needed anyway
That he can give me all of the attention I will ever need
Insomnia
Is the boyfriend I will never be able to break up with
Is the one out to get me
Is the enemy created by my own mind
By my overthinking and fear
Insomnia
Lives in the tip of my pen
In the bend of my fingers
Lures me with words
I cannot keep them inside any longer
Insomnia
Tells me writing is the only way I will stay sane
And if sanity can live without sleep
Then there is no point in doing so
If lack of it
Provides me with material
And the power to write away my demons
Then so be it.

Insomnia,
Insomnia,
I wish that you would die.
Why is it that you ****** me?
You laugh as you make me cry.

Feelings that help conspire,
My heart to skip a beat.
The pressure of my blood rises higher,
To cure my sadness I continue to eat.

A monster grows inside of me,
His name I do not know.
All of this peculiar controversy,
Conspiracies begin to grow.

Not knowing who or what I am,
I start to lose my head.
While my head forms
it's acidic jam,
It soaks up into my bed.

Deadly forces fight inside,
My brain stops it's function.
Unconventional disfunctions collide,
Like a sentence without conjunction.

Distancing myself from society,
I'll sleep forever lonely.
Friends are like your enemies,
So late to realize they're phony.

Love has been lost,
Some time ago.
I wish I had a companion.
Misery,
Inside of me.
A woman's touch will make,
This loneliness inside of me go.

Questioning the nature of humanity,
I feel I'm betraying the lord.
Constant coexisting insanity,
Starts when one becomes bored.

Boarding up these windows,
The storm rolls in above.
As peers become your hated foes,
Hate transformed from love.

Waking up this very day,
I notice a familiar sensation,
Every dawn is like today,
With no spontaneous creation.

Night comes about,
I fail to sleep,
Instead I start to shout.
Counting sheep,
Is useless,
As my heart fails to grout.

Insomnia,
Insomnia,
Why won't you let me be?
Too many things exhaust my mind.
I'd like to go to sleep.

head to pillow
heart asleep
my eyes: exhausted
for insomnia has taken my mind
endless sleep on morning's light
yet night never takes me

irritated eyes
I toss and I turn
I beg to fall into slumber
my head does not stop moving
but then it halts
halts into the most obscure position
halts into; "why am I thinking about this"?

insomnia, it is 2015
your existence is as old as time
but instant streaming is new, and I'm not alone with my thoughts
in fact...
I believe my literary repertoire is built off insomnia...

let me sleep now for rested sounds peaceful
2:00am poems never bothered me
and music sounds better when no one is awake

but please, let me sleep
allow me to loll into drowsiness
I am telling you I am tired

2mg of Klonopin...still restless
2 boxes of chocolate...still broken

Insomnia, you are an illness
but please have mercy on my sanity
for I am losing it,
and yearn to merely breathe

/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.

Can't sleep, it's always the same.
I get to my room, exhausted, lie in my bed,
Close my eyes and the Sleepless Fairy
decides to take the reins of the situation.

Maybe if I go to my computer and surf for a while
I could doze off. Maybe I'll go out and have a cigarette
to calm the Fairy. No, this insomnia is different. I can't fix it
with simple solutions.

This wakefulness is not due to the anxiety of an exam,
or the diffidence I have for that one girl I can't get out
of my head. This insomnia is that small sparkle of
uncertainty that has abounded my mind for a long time.
That feeling of vagueness, of yearning. Yearning of what?
I don't know.

It is simply that feeling that I'm missing something,
whatever it is. I go around the whole day in my mind,
what am I missing? What am I forgetting?

During the day I'm acquiescent, lucid, happy.
But come night... time to go to bed.
Time to perform the daily check for recent events.
Catalog the occurrences with different feelings,
accommodated to their respective memories.

But there's something missing.

I curse the Fairy and its 1001 tricks that keep me
awake and conscious about that which is in the
subconscious.

Will the day come when the Fairy shows up no more?

As long as that feeling is housed in me, like a parasite
clogged on its new victim, the Fairy will keep visiting.