This is basically the story of my life...
---Late night/early morning---
Tiredness is not in the head.
But rather in the feet that shuffle,
stumble over imagined cracks;
make body sway,
nautical shifts on solid ground.
In the eyes,
robbed of day vision,
hollow and scratched by fatigue.
Seeing things others cannot
(their lack of existence a factor):
monkeys playing with watch hands,
friends past in cafe corners.
It is in the words
that come out (all wrong),
tangled and slurred,
bright-eyed but oblivious,
devoid of intended meaning.
It is in the truths
I'd rather not tell;
tumble from me,
full flood of revelation,
inhibition quelled by that lack of slumber.
Tiredness is, it seems, not my friend.
And yet, sleep is neither.
night's rest that seeks to embrace me.
Surrender, finally - too late
to avoid the backlash of earlier avoidance.