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… ***