My body aches and longs for sleep
But my brain and pen conspire to disallow it.
The words slop and swill in a messy bucket of creative juice.
And my bones die slowly this night in my withering skin.
Eyelids droop yetdo not close- water
But strain to keep the windows of my mind open.
Neck seizes rather than wilts into the pillow,
Whilst the verse-full sleepless night goads me.
Sensibility ignored in a stream of stanzas
Frenzied firing of slovenly synapses.
' WRITE ME- WRITE ME', screams the personified poem.
'YOU MUST- Or i will BECOME-
Become what you most fear- your own madness.'
'TAKE HEED OF ME...
For I am ever-present in your pleasure,
Your pain and pitiful physical phthisis.
I will die with you, gift that I am.
And someone will thank you for my words one day'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you for 'booking in' and this here reeks of Insomnia Addicted Poetess... alas I do not know the cure... but delight in knowing my phthisis 'such a cool word' all the world should be acquainted with (though such an ugly disease to be eaten away at) !