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Sleep Would Be Nice

What happens when a teenaged wannabe poet can’t get to sleep? In my case, nonsense happens.

Sleep evades me
(a fish chasing a baited hook)
no matter how I ache
for this brief death
it jigs ever away, teasing.

I am still at last
from my tossing and turning,
quite still and tired,
and dwell instead on every breath.
(try not to choke on the intake)
Who knew air kills?
Coughing hurls phlegm around
my lungs like fiery pokers.
Does sleep grant relief?
(“One can only hope.”)

But not yet.
I can’t even hope
for this brief death.
Because though that hook
moves farther on,
to sweet release and light,
I am not a fish.

~4/15/2007 (2:03 a.m.)

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