Sleep eludes me, slips through my grasp-
rapidly firing neurons wage war
against my cerebral cortex
transforming my brain into a
battleground of synaptic explosions.
Disjointed thoughts tangentially traipse
through the trenches of a fractured mind-
the rhythm of the ceiling fan matches the
throbbing and humming inside my skull
and ideas flutter and flit through my mind
like a carefree band of shadows playing tag.
An idea turns into an itch, then into a flame
that burns at my sanity until I give in to the
thoughts that will not be silent until they are
satiated and tucked in with paper and ink-
witching hour poetry pours out from the
crevasses of the mind until the burning thoughts
are satisfied that they have been properly
tended to, and at long last, may permit me rest.