No Rest for the Wicked

Sleep.

Just go to sleep;

Seems so simple to write.

Internal fight so mysterious,

Demands all might, made delirious

Saying goodnight over and over;

Trying so hard

To not try at all.

Just begging myself

Into slumber to fall,

But it’s true what they say:

There’s no rest for the wicked.

 

Impossible to catch even forty

Remembering memories naughty –

Like that time you were five

And you shat in your pants.

Thick and fast do they come:

The time you called teacher ‘mum’,

The times you failed as a son,

The time you wished you had won;

But instead you just run –

Chasing thoughts down rabbit holes

Into places where pasts and futures blend,

Every second of sleep being stole

By my own design – my own bitter end.

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