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Insomnia, methinks, doth stink;
It carts one quickly to the brink
Then yanks those taunting forty winks
And turns them into toss and blinks.
The hell with all those leaping sheep!
My thoughts on them would earn a bleep.
Instead I stare, in darkness deep,
As minutes into hours creep.
The mind, it fills as demons dance
So slumber doesn’t stand a chance,
But as the daylight does advance
They’re gone, without a backward glance.
And then at last, I get to drowse.
The lines smooth out between my brows;
But obligations don’t allow
The time to catch up anyhow.
Another tired day will dawn,
My pillow something I could pawn.
I’ll greet the morning, pale and drawn
And stifle yet another yawn.
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