The Insomnia Diaries

If I, like you, was a poet
I'd let myself down easy

under the covers, over the sheets,

sleeping in sidecars and riding trains
to another destiny
not mine, not alone,

for what am I?
Like you, a poet?
let down easy

undercover, over the streets,

colliding with wiseguys and fleeing danger
indefinitely,
yet undefined, un-honed.

For what? am I
like you? A poet?
Myself? Let down? Easy?

under the cover, over the sheets,
wide awake, half-asleep.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

sleeping seems not an option for poets, we are usually wide awake, half-asleep with the muse pulling us out of bed, to collide with wise guy words.

really like how this one flows...

and we all seem to head toward a destiny shared, not one that is our own.