One O Four Poem by Benjamin Feliciano

My thoughts pop and crack like joints frustrated by the bereavement of their former fluidity.
I am but a slave to my untimely inspirations.
Emancipated to sleep only after jotting down whatever drips from my fingers to the keyboard.
Drenching the circuitous roads of electrical impulses with reiteration after reiteration of the utter unimportance of existence.
Rather than study the former great,
I selfishly choose to create.
Challenge the concept that I can be nothing more than mediocrity permits.
Question the essentials as determined by the proud,
Attempt to be heard through ways besides being loud.
Swallow fire to burn me awake.
Revel in the idiosyncrasies that turn me into what I hate.
With each lub-dup, lub dup, I am pushing toward the horizontal eight.
And contradicting myself to the point of a questionable mental state.
Too late.
Chill invades.
Sleep decapitates thought.
And a sleepwalker I am not.