Poem: Insomnia #31

Nighttime comes again.
The same nighttime I've known most of my life.
Not the drowsy-sleeping,
tucked-in and dreamy-time night.
The Other Night.
The Night where I am so tired.
The Night where I am exhausted.
The Night where no matter what I do
I can't sleep.
The extra eight hours that I am awake
while most people sleep;
So even people the same age as me
have not lived as many hours awake.
Too tired to read, but I can smoke.
Every cigarette costing me 40 cents;
Burning up money, all night long.
The night where I drink "sleepy time" teas
and eat cereal, but it only makes me
pee and poop more.
Just more things to keep me awake.
Watching movies and worried.
No, certain actually,
about how tired I will be tomorrow.
Feeling the psychic stillness in the air,
the empty space of cities at rest.
But not me.
No, not me.
To me that sacred rest is forbidden.
I still don't know why.
I have guesses, suppositions,
but as long as I remember
I've been this way.
Oh, there have been times...
brief, grace-filled times of rest.
Exhaustion from boisterous sex,
or the brief effects of a new medication.
But it never lasts.
It always comes back to this.
Me, alone, awake, wishing I could sleep.
No drugs left for me now.
All that remains is to take it,
take it as best I can.
Watch videos, write, pray,
and meditate.
Turn on NPR and listen
to the droning voices talking
babbling aimlessly into the dawn.