Tag Archives: insomnia

A Thorn

She’s awake again, I realize, as I myself tumble out of sleep,
to land agitated and out of sorts in the bed, empty of her.
I see the kitchen light shining up from beneath the door,
and realize she’s can’t sleep, so she’s at the table writing.
This thorn in her brain that drips blood into her thoughts,
and scabs over her sweet nature, wounding her light.
This thorn that that festers and infects her dreams, hopes,
and that can’t be pushed out of the soft pink of her dreams.
I get up, still only in my underwear, and by dim light make
my way to the bedroom door, to got to her, to offer love.
Her head is down, and she’s wearing a ratty, pink bathrobe,
typing away at her laptop, not even a glass of tea beside her.
I wrap my arms around her chest, and kiss her head, that still
smells of her favorite strawberry scented shampoo, now discontinued.
She shrugs off my embrace, and continues typing, feverishly,
as if the thorn were a sickness that could be sweated out by words.
I go back to bed, but can’t sleep, knowing how she’s hurting,
and furious and full of fire for the broken world she’s found herself in.
About 4 AM, she finally comes back to bed, but she’ll have to wake at 6.
She takes off her robe, gets under the covers, cuddles up close to me.
“The horrors come so easily.” She says, her face buried in my shoulder.
“Sometimes my heart burst with love for all things, but I can’t write those words.”
“I’ll just stare at the page, wanting to fill them with visions of innocence and sweetness.
But the horrors are always there, just flow write out, never ending, so skillfully made.”
Exhausted at last, she falls asleep, but she sighs and whimpers, still not at peace.
Will hard scare tissue grow over the thorn, grow over it’s insult to her mind?
I kiss her head, and her cheek, whisper the sweetest things I can think of
into her ear, to try and reach out into the darkness, to leaven this pain.
I feel her heart racing, pounding to be free, in her thin, strong, saint’s chest.
The horror inside her world and outside in this one run her down, a fox in the hunt.
The thorn is stuck so deep, can I or anyone else that loves her pull it out again?
Is it’s wound and poison in there forever, blood poisoning all the way to her soul?
I kiss her lips gently, and sing an innocent song to her, to soothe her dreams.

So High, So Bright


Rust Sliding Into White

Lying awake, almost midnight, rust sliding to white.

There is the sound of voices, out there in the night.

A woman, a little girl, hushed and secret, full of tears.

Echoing mutters outside my room, feeds pity, not fears.

Maybe Angela next door is watching an old ghost story.

Maybe the sleepless thoughts have found their quarry.

The woman, the little girl, so sorrowful and now so lost.

The night going to witches and their hour is now crossed.

The wind demands that the windows tremble in fear.

After a moment, those voices fall away, and disappear.

Angela loves ghost stories at night, when she cannot dream.

The TV low, but it carries in the cold air, on a pale moonbeam.

The woman, the little girl, so full of sadness, speaking so low.

What did I hear? Only the trembling panes can ever show.

A Ritual For One

The dead of night without dreams.

Sleepless, sitting in a darkened kitchen,

drinking piping hot coffee, looking out

on the street lit only by sickly streetlamps.

The demons run riot, kicking up a stir,

though I may look calm, and dead eyed stare,

out at the quiet world that gets to rest.

The demons always run riot, never let me be.

The coffee is hot, and harsh, and bitter,

and it keeps me connected to this world,

and it’s alkaline pleasures and hard touch.

A simple thing on a sleepless night.

A ritual to get through, as reverent in it’s

banal steps to make something I don’t need

as any religious ceremony, made for communion.

A ritual for one, who is not even a supplicant.

Maybe for a moment, just a moment, there is

quiet and the demons winding down to gnaw

on a pleasurable memory or a tender place so sacred.

Maybe I can distract them with some anger or bitterness.

Soon, the day begins, and I put on my smile and laugh

and go through it all again, as the demons ruin everything

and nothing sacred stays in my heart, and the devil beats

his wife on a sunny day, that is just a well lit rainstorm.

Starlings Read The Sky

Dive Bomber On I-40

The trucks heading down the highway in the dead of night
have the high pitched, almost nasally wail of a German dive bomber.
I drink hot coffee, fresh from the pot, knowing I should sleep,
but I can’t sit still or lay contentedly. Like the trucks, I got to be somewhere.
Hot coffee, bitter and black, a harsh and sensual pleasure,
like the filterless cigarettes I gave up long ago. Hot and pummeling
on weak and soft flesh. It somehow makes me feel real and whole.
There is no one here to make me do right. No woman to invite me back to bed.
Dive bombers, on and on, hitting distant targets, distant cities.
My coffee, my inability to dream of a better world, only kisses and lovemaking
and the ghost that is in all flesh, and all birth that is the tears to come.
I don’t know how people can lose themselves in the sun.
When the suns come up, the raids will continue, nothing rectified.
I try to think of a woman, one I know, one I see online and in magazines,
someone to build a momentary kingdom around, a queen to serve faithfully,
and in return she’ll keep the cold and anger and rage safe in her septre.
The trucks roll on, and it’s a cold spring morning, and the sun has come,
laughing his cruel vengeance on my tired eyes, and washed out heart,
and they drop their bombs of mercantile items and promise of wholeness
and I bought into for so long, and I know have no idea what else to do.



Garden of Gethsemane

The Garden of Gethsemane, on a sleepless night,

Feeling as all light has fled, even starlight has turned

It’s back, the moon fucked off too, just the glow of

A phone as I try to distract myself from how I feel.


In the garden, no disciples or companions stay awake,

No one to help soothe The Devil whispering, picking,

Trying to push me to something drastic, foolish, irreversible.

Take revenge on a world of fools, or just put yourself in the ground.


A video, a wholesome young woman modestly dressed, sings

Of Jesus and his love, but I don’t feel him near, he won’t stay

Up even one single hour himself, but I listen to her sing, her joy

And her adoration, wondering if it’s joy or a betrayer’s kiss.


In the morning, if I make it, if The Devil doesn’t win this night,

And I’ll try to hold onto the light of this young woman singing,

Her heart pure and so sure of the light that fell dim on my eyes,

As all around me the world burns and His Children stoke the flames.

The Sweetness There Was In The Stars!

The rain is the only soothing thing in the night.

               Maybe I’ll turn on the radio to the classical music

               Or the sappy love songs that let me dream of

               A sweeter, more beautiful world.


               These nights when I cannot sleep, full of dread,

               And regret but not the tears that could wash it

               Away and let me begin again.


               Way back in sophomore year, before I pulled

               A Lucifer and fell from grace, pulled and Eve and

               Took that forbidden knowledge, I dreamed of

               Her, and my heart was full of wonders.


               I stayed up all night, playing that song on repeat,

               That made me feel the warmth of her, the light of her

               On my heart even when though she wasn’t there,

               Just conjuring the life I wanted to live with her.


               What wonders the world and love held then!

               What sweetness was there in the stars!


               All these years later, the night is bitter as almonds,

               And it’s hard to find sweetness in the life I’ve come to.

               Scraps of the otherworld that use to come so easily.


               I turn on the sappy love songs, trying to call that girl back,

               To call back my own innocence, and sweetness of youth.


               I hear that song that I made a hymn to her.

               Finally I find some peace, and some sleep.




Just Another Chance To Dream

Too early to be up, to be away from dreams, from peace.
The sun isn’t up and it’s cool, something soothing for me.
Alone, quiet, maybe the roar of rage with fade away for now.
I don’t know what to do with it at all, what can be done anymore.
 I dream of Brie, quirky and sweet, or so I believe, the face I put on her.
I dream of us having a beach vacation in South Carolina, happy in the sun.
I dream of holding her hand and holding her and holding on to a sweet thing.
I dream of some perfect life with her, to chase away the rage eating me up.
 Maybe I’ll lay my head down on my desk, close my eyes, push away thought.
Just count to ten, thinking of her face, and all she makes me believe in again.
And sleep, just a little more peace, just another chance to dream, to be an angel.
The sky in the city has no stars, but we can fill our hearts with the universe, if we choose.

Sleep, Finally

Sleep, finally. The days don’t end. The night’s too short.
Try to smile and be friendly, not give an angry ass retort.
I’m not a servant. I am not a slave. I am here to help only.
I don’t like smiling thought it. I don’t like being so lonely.

I lay on my side, curl up, wish there was someone else here.
Wish there was someone to share my world with, without fear.
Spotify kicks in with a sad ballad playlist, and sad almost feels good.
At least it’s not hate, and bitterness, resentment, turns heart to wood.

 And maybe, I’ll dream somehting sweet, a place in the sun in my sleep.
I’ll be happy and in love and a hero as the starry shadows slowly creep.
Morning will be here too soon, and I’ll have to face it, and be strong again.
This world is sorrow and tears, and I swear I can never ever seem to win.