Insomnia

This pillow feels like cement
on a bed of jagged nails,
I’m praying for an ounce of rest,
but even that bid fails.
My eyes are dully burning
just like the day before,
my body keeps on running
till I can’t take it any more.
My head though is still racing
with every whim and thought,
no strategy has shut it down
despite the years they’ve fought.
This restlessness is killing me,
at least that’s how I feel,
I’m slowly drifting out of touch
and I don’t know what’s real.
I’ve started counting days
by when everyone’s in bed
rather than a calendar;
it’s fucking with my head.
I’ve yet to find that wonderland
where people’s words are clear,
or what I see makes sense
and I’m sure of what I hear.
Sometimes I get so fed up
that it puts me in a rage
but there’s no place for the anger
so it’s locked up in this cage.
It’s becoming quite a problem
and I’m running out of sheep,
It’s bad for any state of mind;
I need to get some sleep.

Jean Isherwood Farley

April 2009