Insoporia

And the sleep won’t come,
the time ticks a pattern in my head,
a memory of you enters and fades,
a lost time, more potent than the time I’m losing now.

If I could choose, if I truly had free will,
I’d run, I’d break out, I’d be unbonded, free.
but while I’m here in this state, a listless nowhere,
I can’t, I won’t, I’ll never be.

and even now, when I feel almost alive, I’ll falter
search for words that won’t come, that will never say what I want to say
I’ll think that at the very least, I’ve created something
but for what purpose? In the end, I’ll hate them, hate it, loathe it all the same.

And the sleep still won’t come, but maybe I always am.