joey k poetry

Are there nights
when you can’t sleep?
It happens to me
once or twice a week.
Nothing can be done,
I do what the doctors say
but somehow sleep is kept at bay.
At around twenty four
my vision plays foul tricks on me.
Shadows in my periphery,
stationary objects hurled my way.
Thirty hours brings paranoia.
They all know something,
in on a joke I’m the butt of.
Everyone around me
joins my vision in insidious antagonism.
Hour forty brings bliss.
Tranquility.
My mind so tired it can’t hurt me.
That is when I finally do the laundry.