I go to bed exhausted, bleary eyed,
teary eyed before long and a strong sense
that all is lost if this lack of slumber
costs me any more grief.
The sandman is a thief in the night,
stealing the light in my eyes
and casting a pall on my wishes
for sweet dreams. It seems my affliction
is a dereliction of somnambulist seclusion.
Insomnia plays like a raucous rumba with my R.E.M.
Narcoleptic fits are every bit as annoying,
toying with my sleep patterns; a smattering of
But the Apnea sleep Nazi screams, “NO SLEEP FOR YOU!!!”
So it’s true, I lay in a heap and finally feel the heaviness greet
my eyelids. The ensuing headache breaks and
takes what small packet of napping it can.
I’m not even sure I dream anymore, or if my subconscious
mind can find the root causes for these nightly pauses.
My legs twitch, as if an unscratched itch is festering,
pestering me to no end. And without warning, I buck
and lurch, a search for a solution. A new sensation,
I am falling while asleep; falling, asleep.
The bottom comes too soon, jolting me to a new
stage of awake with the ache that pulses around my eye.
Off the floor to rise, flipping the pillow and trying
to find an exit from this never-ending horror story.
I go back to bed exhausted, bleary eyed;
like I’ve always tried, expecting things to go differently.
In any book, that’s insane.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides – Wednesday Prompt #369: Patterns

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