Insomnia

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Here we are in September, and I’m still hanging in there with my post a day challenge. I have written a lot of poetry using different styles since I started in January. I’m not saying it has been great poetry. I’ll admit most of it wouldn’t win any contests. Surprisingly, Word Daddy has stuck with me through the ordeal. He still says he wants a raise. This month I plan to write Soliloquies. These are rambling monologues where the poet has conversations with herself. I believe this will be my biggest challenge since I don’t often talk to myself. I want to put a disclaimer right at the front of the adventure. The views expressed are the inner dialog of the poet. They might be total bs, but they are real. The first poem in this series I will call Insomnia.

Insomnia

Tossing and turning

I wish I could sleep

I wish you could sleep

Every night it is the same old thing

I don’t know if insomnia

Is something that happens with age

Or if it is the state of the world

Is creating a certain level of paranoia

It doesn’t matter much at this stage

All I want to do is get a good night’s sleep.

Maybe it is a deep passion burning

Old people still have a certain level of desire

We aren’t dead yet

Mind, I suggest you need to stop churning.

Pick a better time to inspire

Or create a new story idea

Complete with characters and dialogue

Stories have a way of appearing

From somewhere out of the deep

There is a time to not worry and fret

Still, all I want to do is sleep.

Crawl out of bed and rub your eyes

Put the pot of coffee on

And make it strong

Note to me: refuse to nap

Girl don’t fall into that trap

Remember to sing your morning song

There is no point in having this conversation with yourself.

The day is waiting

There are chores to do

Don’t stand around debating

The merits of sleep

No point in feeling blue.

Caffeine may not be the answer

But at least you’re awake

Turn yourself into the kitchen dancer

And for heaven’s sake

Stop praising the merits of sleep.

Who is Molly Shea?

Molly Shea is an accomplished fictional short story writer from Indiana who writes short stories and novels about a fictional town called Tecumseh.  To read more of her short stories and adventures, click here.

Be sure to follow Molly on Twitter!

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Published by henhouselady

I am the author of Saving the Hen House. I didn't know when I started it would turn into a series. I love to ride motorcycles, the blues, my family, and going on adventures. This old hen rocks.

10 thoughts on “Insomnia

  1. don’t sleep
    don’t eat,
    don’t count sheep,
    what odd hours you keep,
    and when hungry,
    no peep from your mouth yet your teeth,
    grinding as they do,
    please have a bowl of stew,
    let go of the chew,
    it’s going to destroy you,
    what good will it do,

    yet in words we are trapped,
    a perpetual rat-a-tat-tat,
    memoirs of lost lives do spring to this shore,
    of a yet to become someone,
    from now and before,
    how I do implore,
    please know the score,
    this sleeping and waking,
    is but a routine,
    designed against your will,
    to cook and clean,
    to labour at heel of others keen,
    to capture with no release date,
    this is why I dream,
    my dream not yours,
    brought from distant shores,
    imported not natural as afore,
    it is this that springs upon the shore,
    rat-a-tat-tat,
    they too are asking for more,
    not of the same,
    not of the gravy train,
    to issue no blame,
    yet to be heard,
    simple and plain,
    listen and hear me,
    respect that I am,
    always in your wish list of things to be gained,

    so grab me and put your hands on my chest,
    press close and with passion to flush the cheeks and the rest,
    and rest I will in your arms and legs,
    just take me,
    for a while and I’ll simply forget the rest…

      1. ha ha ha…. I don’t sleep at all or very little… and I really don’t know where the stuff comes from, obviously me, but it is the weirdest thing too… like turning a tap on… stranglely (spelling error or not lol) I can’t sit and write without it being prompted… it’s as if I am picking up on the liminal subtext of others words

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