How long has it been since I've
written a poem, but there in the mirror,
my insomniac gaze
stares back, and there I see her,
who's been gone so long,
the insomniac poet,
the genius with black-rimmed eyes,
pallor under draped hair,
and the cynical but biting stare of a madwoman,
balancing on the edge, about to pounce and
sink her teeth deep in the flesh of my arm
and shoulder if I do not write!
So write I must, in a 2:00 moonlight
with my eyes going bloody, their beds sinking in,
turning darker and darker gray,
the madwoman's gaze upon me in the mirror
and the words falling out of my mid-night pencil
as sanity leaks away from me and
my hand writes whatever
the madwoman likes. Restless, quite restless
There is my poet. There she is, Insomnia.
She sets in like a headache,
and makes me look Goth.