The Insomniac's Conundrum

White paper, black ink.
Blank spaces still shrink.
Still the words I write won't glisten.
I hold them to the light, but the strangers don't listen.
It's the insomniac's conundrum: how to sleep while you think.
To do thirteen things at once, as you eat and you drink.
Food isn't too scarce, but the thought of dreaming keeps you up.
The fear of more fear, to take one more sip from the cup.
All the while, you know it's just back to the drawing board.
At least there's the moonlight, when you know that you're getting bored.
Pick up a book, pick up a phone, pick up a pen.
All is good if you say so, even when the cycle begins again.
A poem is a message, but a poem ain't no friend.
Cyclical madness is what it is.
It's when the night never ends.