PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

6:04 AM, one cup of coffee, one cigarette.
One sharp fucking pencil.
The insomniac is lonely.

So he turns the page and keeps writing,
Never sure what the next line will read.
It's been a long night, staring at the ceiling,
Staring at the wall.

His poems haven't rhymed
For quite some time.
He thinks it might be nice
To give it a try:
Anything that lives dies.

If he wants success,
He knows his writing must progress.
Maybe, in fact, he should rhyme less.
Which is easy, under such duress.
But he is me, and I believe
This poem is not my best.
But as he is me, I do believe
I cannot put writing to rest.

All I have is this pen in my fist.
I live my existence
To the absolute cheapest.

I'm growing frustrated
With my inability to sleep.
I'll probably lie right here forever
Counting millions and millions of sheep.