I thought I was sleeping last night,
But all of my eyes were open behind my two lids
And I could see and feel the room around me.
I could taste the cold tea in the chipped porcelain cup that I left on the book shelf;
I could sense the damp cold air slipping in through the open window,
And swaddle me like a blanket of wet gauze on my goose-bumped flesh (this happens when you are pulled out from under your sheets by unparalyzed writhing);
And I could smell the ashes of a spent joint and a scorched stick of frankincense.
My dreams were populated with moments of sleep just like this in which I wasn’t asleep
Or entirely awake.
Just an odd case of sleep state misperception,
Of obsessive wakeful mentation
About which state of sleep or wakefulness I am inhabiting.
Maybe sleep will become my waking life,
Or my waking life will be my new sleep.
Not sure if I will want to know
What’s up and what’s down
And either or which every neither way,
Just as long as I get to actually sleep
At some point.
*** Regulate your sleep patterns, Sweet Cheeks. That way you don’t have to write poetry about having weird sleeping situations. Man… you poem-writers create your own problems just so you can write about them. SMH…. ***
*** I would rather create my own problems than give that honour to someone else. I’m just being proactive. ***
*** Zzzzz… ***