the digital clock silently ticks 6:28am
and out the window the sky brightens to another new day,
following another sleepless night.
my fingers wander across the landscape of the keyboard,
sometimes slowly
sometimes quickly
forming a structure of words
that now stretches down the fifth digital page,
or so says the computer.
my mind wanders elsewhere,
through the depths of a sleep deprived mind.
a mental state becoming familiar once again.
somewhere in my bowels, a rumble,
reminding me the dining hall is closed for another hour yet.
and i sit.
i stare.
i try to wonder,
but that requires too much mental focus.
and i know when i come back to read what i wrote,
it will all be a jumble of nonsense,
cohesive, but unclear
like most products of my mind.
he was right in fight club,
when he described insomnia.
everything is farther away, dulled,
hours spent not asleep, but not awake to the world.
it's actually not a bad place.
makes things easier to deal with,
easier to accept
or blow off.
and this poem,
like my hands
like my mind
wanders aimlessly,
without a goal,
therefore destined to an eternity of nothingness
until it expires of its own accord.
no longer able to live without meaning.
purpose.
and i wonder...
is it the poem
or is it me
that nears this end?
tick.
6:36.
8 more minutes of my life.
gone like too many to count,
and for what...
bc
------------------
bc-
**Proud to be an Official member of the Stuck-Up/8-Up Crew**
"Fuck PLUR! it's all about hardcore ass fucking!!"
We'll make great pets...
"drug suppliers, typically wearing 'Ecko' brand sweat shirts shuffle around the dance floor, chanting softly, 'want some pills? k?'" - Shu Shin Luh, The Chicago Sun-Times
and out the window the sky brightens to another new day,
following another sleepless night.
my fingers wander across the landscape of the keyboard,
sometimes slowly
sometimes quickly
forming a structure of words
that now stretches down the fifth digital page,
or so says the computer.
my mind wanders elsewhere,
through the depths of a sleep deprived mind.
a mental state becoming familiar once again.
somewhere in my bowels, a rumble,
reminding me the dining hall is closed for another hour yet.
and i sit.
i stare.
i try to wonder,
but that requires too much mental focus.
and i know when i come back to read what i wrote,
it will all be a jumble of nonsense,
cohesive, but unclear
like most products of my mind.
he was right in fight club,
when he described insomnia.
everything is farther away, dulled,
hours spent not asleep, but not awake to the world.
it's actually not a bad place.
makes things easier to deal with,
easier to accept
or blow off.
and this poem,
like my hands
like my mind
wanders aimlessly,
without a goal,
therefore destined to an eternity of nothingness
until it expires of its own accord.
no longer able to live without meaning.
purpose.
and i wonder...
is it the poem
or is it me
that nears this end?
tick.
6:36.
8 more minutes of my life.
gone like too many to count,
and for what...
bc
------------------
bc-
**Proud to be an Official member of the Stuck-Up/8-Up Crew**
"Fuck PLUR! it's all about hardcore ass fucking!!"
We'll make great pets...
"drug suppliers, typically wearing 'Ecko' brand sweat shirts shuffle around the dance floor, chanting softly, 'want some pills? k?'" - Shu Shin Luh, The Chicago Sun-Times
