Idiot Nocturnal January 25, 2018

Up all night writing poetry. Natural that I should write about trying to sleep or the lack there of. As a teenager sleep scared me. I always worried I might miss something if I closed my eyes. Later on, as I got older, the thought of dying while I slept became my excuse. It seems rational to me. If I just stayed awake long enough to see the dawn, then it was safe to go to sleep. Death wouldn't come for me when the sun was out and about. {smiles}

Idiot Nocturnal 

I should force my eyes closed.

I should drag myself towards a dream
without a thought for sleeping.

Mostly, I’m made of sand, a muddy,

sticky sand. It begins to loosen
its shape as each day turns to night,
today, tonight again . . . and again.

I patiently await the wetter seasons,

for the masters of springy air-currents
to blow me away to softer shores,
to softer thoughts than the ones
that hop about inside my skull

when the weather’s less than cheery.

I don't long for death, not for dying or crying.

I may find, time from time, to time a moment

for lamenting  my withered state.

But often enough when memories get too rough

my mouth props me up with a stupid-ass grin.

There are moments, precious moments

when being an idiot is a tonic for the soul.

Woodie o8-26-17 (rewrites o1-11-18)