Creative Insomnia

These are nights with weary eyes.

Nights that allow my brain to construct more elaborate lies to feed myself.

But these are nights that mix colors with my hands instead of behind my eyelids.

These are nights that hold my mind gently between two far off star and blades of grass at the same time.

Nights that don't take down my walls, they dissolve them and let every creative part of me flow out through every pore.

And there is no binding my hands because my head won't stop spinning and sleep is never an option

Sleep is never an option.

Sleep isn't necessary.

Resistance is futile here on these nights when colors have smells and shapes have sounds.

These nights when tints and shades give a perfect pitch to the music that plays in this twisted mind that mixes hurt and grief in a shot glass before it'll take refuge in pillows and blankets.

These are nights that torture my very existance as they pull words I didn't know I knew out of my brain and smear them with a carelessly inked hand across paper.

I wear these nights with honor in my bones and beneath my eyes.

They present themselves in how I speak but there's not a chance I'd change it.


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