"insomnias" poems
1 am
I spent this hour getting drunk texts from a friend
she's the weepy kinda drunk and her spelling mistakes didn't end
I mean she's a great person but the bottle sees the opposite
2am
Went to get a midnight snack
made myself a sandwich because obviously I don't get any a--
peanut butter and honey
yes it tasted yummy
3am
and I'm still lonely
I've been listening to sade and her voice got me chilled out and *****
Mulled over a **** Sunday addition
started to toss and turn
with alarming rhythm and precision
4am
finally went to sleep
dreamt of my gf laying beside me
me just holding her like a teddy bear in a warm embrace
her loving lips locked with mine in a tender embrace
I was sleepless in Chicago for several hours last night
it might've been the cold I have, but I woke up not feeling too bright
now it's 11 34 and I'm trying to nap
maybe tonight I won't fall into insomnias trap
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
i was smoking on the balcony earlier
the sun still refusing to set
birds chirping
mosquitoes biting
someone in the neighborhood throwing a party
in all its simplicity, and maybe due to it,
the setting made me tear up:
roughly three years ago,
i cried on that balcony at night
for hours and hours
i was fixing to die but so scared of the thought
i never wrote a letter either;
roughly two years ago,
i was on that balcony grinning like hell,
my insides felt ablaze because
you were on the other end of the phonecall
and you were saying you loved me
and the tear stains had quite dried up by then;
roughly a year ago,
i was on that balcony biting my lips to blood,
because i'd realized i had a crush on you
and knew i was only a friend
my head swarming with thoughts of guilt
and i could not remember smiling at the sound of your voice
without the sting of feeling like a criminal;
now, we are set to meet in three days
it's no big deal
we still are not okay
but gods, i have been bleeding for so long it's starting to feel comfortable
we are adults
and we're spending three days by the sea
like adults
it's going to be awkward,
and i'm going to get blind drunk
and i'm going to be pathetic
and i'm going to beg
and i'm going to cry
and you're going to cry
and you're going to apologize
and you're going to be petty
and you're going to get blind drunk
and it's going to be awkward,
but we're adults
and i can manage;
so i was smoking on the balcony,
the sun quite close to going home
the sky as colorful as drug-induced insomnias
and even though i have three years' worth of bitter memories,
i was alive to see a fourth
i am alive
and it's not easy, and it's not pleasing, and it's not great,
but it is good enough.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
We heard, in general conversation,
*It costs an arm and a leg, now,
Just to see a game.
To join in the comaraderie and cheer.
To eat a dog, to have a beer.
It's a rip off*.
He closed.
I agreed.
Then something else occured to me
About money and time,
(and what grows on trees)
How they interact to corner us;
To keep us from shows,
And stage dramas
That help us forget
Our real life traumas
(the causes of our nightly insomnias).
There's plenty to spend our cash on
(when older. like me, not when you're young).
So I tell my friends to purchase tickets
For games and concerts,
Plays and trips,
Meals and tips,
And gifts for giving
While above ground with the living.
Cause when you’re gone
You'll wonder why
You didn't spend
Before you died.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:38 AM UTC
Dandelion hair
Firebird eyes
Angel limbs
Barefoot in my wedding cake
Holding on to make-believe
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
*ζωημαντεια reveals that the living shake their heads in disbelief, while the dead reveal only decapitated chicken limb twitching of a repeat, thus the living are dis-believing that it might happen again, while the dead are past the nervousness of what's to be expected; the urban man overly ****** cannot see the elemental basics of a chicken's decapitated head, for him the elements are no more, ensnared by the atoms and the atomic hierarchy, but missing the fifth element man lives under, the electric, even walt whitman spoke of: my body electric; no insomnia near the camp-fire and aye to pirate's or shepherd's story, but as many dreams as insomnias living under the voyeurisms of the electric eye in neon and in pixel, a calculus division of narration into the infinitesimal nearing a schizoid-dualism of the one experiencing and relating: thus nearing modern fictive narration of not experiencing but nonetheless narrating to the only relation: a book of lies on a bookshelf of the many, but not the one.*
she's speaking all the grand
words that don't even
provide a cancerous centimetre
of genesis toward death,
because she's still her words
and a bottle of whiskey
is still a familiar leftover of
the day readily forgotten by me:
if she can replace the effects
of a bottle of whiskey without
moralising me she's welcome,
otherwise she's just another ideal
reduced to a poem, reduced to
a creased page with that monochromatic
masterpiece essence, if in colour we'd call a Turner,
but in black & white we'd call
the method of death for the poet,
rather than the work produced.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
The eyes fall heavy in the darkness of night,
Through the clouds shines glimmering light.
My mind wanders as if walking through a maze,
Seconds feel like hours and Hours like days.
My dreams and reality seem to intertwine,
Aspirations and goals trusted to the divine.
I pray for forgiveness and strength to proceed,
For the future a few hours is all I need...
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC