On Nights I don’t Sleep


truth is,
every night is
the same
and i am a witness.
malleable me.
i as a
cranky ceiling fan
rotating and squeaking
like a bed losing its mind.
i as a window
taking shot after shot
from the wind trying to force
their way in.
i as a clock. every tick
syncs with my heartbeat
until we create
a metronome for insomniacs.
my mind exits and wanders,
makes a stop at a neighbour’s,
zooms off to a new job,
fast-forwards to
some part of hell
and heaven shows
some torture too.
i as a silent night,
no dreams, no nightmares
just eyes with bags
too big to contain
the number of sleep
i may never regain
even after death.


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