This Feeling Poem by Winnie Mutai

Sleepless
I feed on this feeling.
Tormented, agitated, imprisoned-
Eats me has me till its filling.
Disturbed, perturbed, moved,
I mellow on the excitement.
It's my latest adornment,
My now and then,
An equal difference,
A pleasant pain.
Ain't I done with my penance?

I wash myself in the feeling-
Not knowing how to out,
Is He seeing?
It is now me and I it.
I yearn not for the tremor,
This feeling frequently causes.
Instead, I stretch out my femur,
To touch not the thorns of the rose,
Simply to bask in other feelings.

To feel, is to be touched,
I want not to feel.
To touch, is to feel,
I want to touch.
To feel what it feels when it touches.
I want it to know tremors
As best as I have come to know
tears, fears, sorrow
Will He see?

I will be it and it will be me.
Awhile, it will feed on its own feeling
Tormented, agitated, imprisoned-
Lest I give less than I received
It must swim in the feeling
An equal serving
To what it dished out
Penance, paid must it

Till then, I feed on this feeling.