I've decide to do a series of
poem posts, alternating between my own poems and poems I love by famous writers.
The poem below was one I wrote March of last year for a lit poetry class in my senior year. I didn't get a very good mark for it, which I understand because I didn't put a lot of work into it-- I think I actually wrote it the morning before class. Anyway, even if its not that great a poem, it is an honest look into my psyche and my strange personal habits in university life. The scene described below happened a
lot during finals weeks.
"The Morning After Sleeplessness"
Sometimes I don't sleep at night
just to be stubborn. I can control time
and time, day, doesn't really begin again
unless you've rested some point in between.
Although it never quite works like that:
I've created hours from nothingness
but I still feel like I've lost time somewhere,
and I just have to wait for it to catch up.
Objects and feelings aren't unreal they're much too real.
I shiver every time the air changes and think
What time is it now? Is it 8 o'clock yet,
the hour when my roommates wake up and catch me?
Can I fake it-- do I want to fake it?
Yes, I've been sleeping, not reading, not watching tv,
not fucking up my body cycles.
A raised eyebrow is my reward-- I am not
entirely certain I'd buy it either.
Ninth hour hits and morning rituals are due. Most important
is the shower, the cave that wakes me up
but only after making me feel drunk.
I palm the tile wall as if I'd taken six shots
of something and hold myself
steady, straight, and stable,
because a cracked head is kind of scary
when you wrap your head around it.
Stepping out of the shower I'm awake, brighter and higher
than I've been in weeks. Still kind of drunk
from fatigue but not to worry,
the real fatigue won't hit me till early afternoon.
Right now I've got four or five hours
of total sensation to play with.