This old house creaks
and groans from the
burden of too many years,
too many lives.
The middle of the night
is gone, and the morning
races towards me as a
sleep deprived,
caffeine induced blur.
The darkness is at it's
peak, the silence, it's thickest.
I can hear the thoughts bounce
off my skull, rattle past my understanding
and rip out of my pen

Before

I

can

grasp

them.
The cold hardwood floors
jolt my feet into an upright
and awake position.
A car alarm sounds,
reminding me that I have
to get up in three hours.
Signs of dawn trace through
my window, yet no signs
of sleep grace my mind.
my pen flails about
c r a z i l y
in cat scratchings on paper,
napkins, walls,
exploding ink-blot verse,
trying to rid my mind of Freud.

My coffee is cold.
My mouth is dry.
My bed is lumpy.
My mind is clear
enough to leave this
crazy ass blood shot room.
The cats look at me, worried.

I look back, but they're already
fast asleep on my pillow.
So I write

etirw ritew wirte scribble scrabble babble babble babble

until my pen is dried up.
I should really try to sleep.
My fingers are cramped
around the pen.
I don't even like coffee.
Insomnia is a bitch
on my mind.

All poetry is written by Stephen Lindsay.

Please do not use or copy any of Stephen's poetry without his permission. Thank You!

E-mail Stephen at srl77@rochester.rr.com