The Stolen Hours


The Stolen Hours

Can’t sleep; don’t dare think
Too late the mind’s in motion
Same old questions…

How did I get here?
Where the hell am I going?
What drives me on?
Keeps pushing this merry-go-round
Who am I really and
Life, Do I really care?

The absence of noise at night frightens me
When I can’t sleep
–Comforts me
When I choose to stay awake . . . writing

Reflection is just an evil manifestation of
Self doubt, total, complete, unfiltered
Hungrily I long for the brains of those in the know
Of what they’d do, always done, will continue to do
Their dreams.

Waning hours blur my typical allies:
Coffee, Music, cigarettes, dreams
One keeps you awake
The other makes you think, afraid to shut the eyes
Where nightmares lie in wait
And then there’s cancer
Which everything causes…
I squint on no closer to slumber

Do writers ever sleep?
Or pretend, ready to pounce thoughts artistic
To work, rework, musings to steal the night away.
Hours ticking by like the drip, drip, drip of a nasty faucet
Down the drain.

©BBerry

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