Oh, Insomnia

Oh, insomnia
You are an itchy straw hat
which sits uncomfortably askew
upon an overcrowded mind after midnight
I want to rip off the hat
and slice into the itch with a katana blade
But there is no hat
and the itch is my keyed up imagination,
teasing me that I'm missing
something,
somewhere,
with someone
There must be an artistic kegger raging
where grants are given as parting gifts

Oh, insomnia
You are a painful finger flick
against the taint of my unconscious
while sugarplum fairies fuck like porn stars
beyond my bloodshot periphery to spite me
I want to break that finger
and swat the fairies with abandon
But there is no finger
and the fairies are my brainstorms,
teasing me that I'm missing
sincere salutations,
coffee-fueled conversations,
and chimpanzee high-fives
There must be an artistic net designed
to savor all of these light bulb moments

Oh, insomnia
You are a last minute present
bought at 3 a.m. at a gas station
designed to torpedo all relationships
and ultimately sink every Christmas
I want to return the non-present
and blow torch the expectations
But there is no present
and the expectations are my fears,
teasing me that I'm missing
youthful tyrannical tirades,
opportunities for epic fails,
and longings to cannonball into love
There must be an artistic haven where
the continual loss of sleep is a plus