I can’t sleep.
The clock on my wall keeps taunting,
Each tick a haunting,
Another voice to the cacophony inside my head.
I sat up in that bed,
fed up of it’s jest.
I dressed and left,
Letting the voices lead my feet,
Down this and that threatening street,
All of it lost to me, as my inward eyes mapped their movements.
I thought to hide in the bottom of some bottle,
Drown the council of characters with spirits.
“Yeah, that’s the spirit.” one soul yells.
Was that mine or one of them?
Who speak so fast, so loud, so bold, they outrun my pen.
So here I am walking,
These streets at 3 Am.
And an old woman pushes her rattling home past me,
And a new voice assails myself.
I head back to clock on the wall,
to the bed,
They’ll keep my company as I try to give the conclave voice,
do them write,
Put their voices in printed ink,
So there can be quite in which to sleep.