More words have been spilled
Over staying up too late
Than any other **** subject
That ever comes to this tired mind

When the nights drag on to mornings
And I wonder
Why the hell I'm still awake
There's nothing left to do
But turn that angst into words
And slap them down on a page
And pray that at my age
That lyrical Ambien
Knocks me right out

I've written more poems and dissertations about my bedtime
Than minutes
I sleep each night
Than pillows and sheets
I've owned in my life
Than times
I've ever made the bed
Than bedside books
I've ever read
Than midnight snacks
I've tried to sneak
Than my family's cumulative
REM cycles per week
Than my lifetime
Running count of sheep
Than strategies
I've tried to go to sleep

But when the clock strikes
oh-my-god-is-that-the-actual-time
Before I lay down my head
In the end
I won't go to bed
I'll give in again
And let the words flow
Cause staying up late
Is all that I know

I wanted to fall asleep it was my escape in this reality

Deeply imagining of what could've been.

Flying around the World with no reason to stop and much as well rest...

The nights are not what they seem, I need to stay awake.

The voices in my head telling me to open my eyes wide

Where only I can see the dark, wishing I was blind.

The silence was killer, to think I'd go back and listen to my Dad read a story or my Mom sing me to sleep

But I hear whispers saying I should leave.

Dreams weren't nice, they were frightful like the night

I can't differentiate reality from slumber.

The moment I close my eyelids I'd feel it, the grasp of something unseen. It's screaming in my ear letting me know

I'm not alone.

It's morning again 24hrs to prepare for Bedtime once more, another battle.  

And the Demon had a score.

Emmalou comes to my bed at night:
"Now Abby, tell me a story!", she orders.
"I can tell you about stars and the Universe's borders, or just moonlight."

Welcome to the meat shop
Where arms and legs dangle from the top,
Where discarded fats ooze from the lid
Of a metal bin and a giant squid
Is sneaking out through the crack near the back door.

And the floor is ***** and slippery like butter
Oyster juice stained the buttons on the cash register.
Aunty comes with her butcher knife.
She’s about to chop the life
Out of that carp. She misses! And swears.

Her finger, clean cut, and bounces off the floor.
My lord!
Blood sputters from her knuckle.
The entire scene gives me a chuckle.
And I wake up from my dream hungry.