Well, it's 11:30 where I am, and still, not sleep. I'm tired to the point of tears right now, but there's this little thing called insomnia that does this everynight. well, what better to do then write poetry, right?
Once again, Night comes,
But once more, night becomes,
Just the empty, voidless space,
Where thoughts churn,
The pillow burns,
And that little voice inside,
Gives no rest.
Contemplating, concentrating,
On things to come, and those that passed,
What should be filled with dreams,
Is just a filler in between.
Why is it that,
All critics come at night,
To review, to shout, to think, to fight.
Why is it that,
All options undone,
Seem to be bested here?
Once again, Night comes,
And yet, it just becomes,
That empty, voidless, space,
Insomnia.
Definitely not my best, but I just wrote it, and I want to do something with it. Well, please read and review, thank you!
xoxo
Jenni
