insomnia is the love child of ADD and depression

He says, she says, they say Go away,

come again another day when you’re all. Grown.  Up.

Pop tarts, top ten charts, then again you’ve missed the mark,

and yes, that’s what she said

when you failed again in bed.

Can’t concentrate or sit still,

unfocus, look at the curtains

check the check you sent to pay the bill

and watch it bounce right back into your face.

This will all be over, but not soon;

that’s the joy of pain,

how long it lasts,

the thrill of understanding you’re about to lose.

So many books and you’re stuck on this page,

tripping over one word, skipping and mixing it up

like some dyslexic kid.

But you can’t sleep.  You can’t move.

Sometimes your limbs don’t listen and it proves

that you’re not in control

and that’s the point of impact,

the sonic blast

that puts you back to sleep with your eyes wide open in your head.

Cold coffee in the cup,

a fine film on the surface of your tongue;

everything will grow mold if you let it.

And you’ll let it because you can.

Tin Man, Rain Man, Sand Man, Blue Man

tinning, raining, sanding, bluing

with an ing they’re always doing

what they’re doing if they’re doing

something more than you are doing

letting mold uphold a habit

breeding fast like wild rabbits

taking home on your calm tongue

and singing of the promised land.

This is what I do, she says.

I look at curtains.  I lie in bed.

I put things up upon my wall,

I take them down, I move them all.

I wander then from place to place;

I look around.  I see my face.

I go to work, I go to school,

I sit on the bottom of the apartment pool.

I see the light through the water’s waves

I see the light, but there’s nothing to feel.

And that’s the point, I guess, she says.

When all is done there’s nothing real.

And if that’s true, there’s nothing to crave.

And if there’s nothing to crave, there’s nothing to do.

So this is what I do, she says.

I look at curtains.  I lie in bed.