Insomnia.

It’s early

and the hopeful expectation to achieve some morning burst of productivity looks distorted through the haze.

last night was another trial in the reduction of a successful method

though the only common denominator it seems

is a constant itch and a splintering headache.

hanging always over me

my paper-thin curtains are tattered and ill

a conscientious objector

more concerned with its own fragility than in keeping out the light.

and what’s more,

it’s joined forces with the persistent smell of damp

arising from some place under my bed

just out of sight.

perhaps it exists somewhere amongst the skeletons of pillbugs

and the defiant soldiers in the corners of my room

sizing me up as their next meal as I lie helpless in the night

saved solely by my labouring

sluggish atop my bed

as I navigate through the no-mans-land of collapsed springs and carved out ridges

with nothing to guide me but the contents of my twisted dreams

there is no solace there.

maybe the nauseating stench hides inside the walls,

under the odd patches of off-white paint

remaining nameless.

its only whisper heard when the light catches just right

secluding unspeakable secrets beneath its surface.

the deafening groan of the the water pump flushes and screams

twisting and contorting the base of my neck

scratching down my spine

until the dread of the siren spins uneasy in my mind.

and the dull buzzing of the extractor is an incessant itch

worn out with a forgotten purpose,

boring its dogma cleanly through my skull and out my eyes

until I there is no place left for thoughts of my own.

just as I ventured forth before,

I drudge wearily again

with singed nostrils and sunken eyes

bound by the broken promise

of one final good nights rest.