The Poet Who Cannot Sleep Poem by Lacie Hebert

At night she hunts for language
in the shadows of her mind,
chasing down the broken things
the daylight leaves behind.

Her pen is cold and heavy—
a blade she's come to trust—
cutting through the quiet room
and stirring up the dust.

She writes of ghosts that linger
in the corners of her chest,
of memories that sharpen
when she wills them to rest.

Each line becomes a reckoning,
a truth she cannot flee;
the ink spreads out like bruises
where the feelings used to be.

She hates the words, yet needs them—
the only touch she knows
to keep the dark from rising
and swallowing her whole.

So still she sits, unraveling
the hurt she cannot speak,
while poems slip like whispers
from the wounds that make her weak.