Insomnia and a poem

I was thinking today about my last bout of depression and insomnia, it was in late September and some into October. I never fully recovered during the semester, because my school work had already suffered but I continued to create a lot of poetry and did end up on a 'regular' sleep schedule. Normally when I go home I end back up in my insomniac tendencys, but this time that didn't happen. I went home and slept no more than 9 hours at a time, mostly only 8. I drank Coffee only in the morning, and maybe a cup of tea in the afternoon. What I didn't do is finish any poetry, though I started a lot.

Now I am on a training plan (as mentioned in the post before this one) and therefore I have to take care to eat and sleep enough. I grew up really quickly, and have been pretty much dependent upon myself since leaving the comfort of home when I was 16 years old. Now, though, I am faced with a whole new level of care and self appreciation. I can feel mussels in my body that I don't remember and I have to worry about injury and reaching my peak. This means I can't let myself slip into the insomnia world again, because 8 hours of sleep is an important and necessary recovery time. My knowledge, and understanding of this impressed even myself. I am being responsible and helpful to my own body, and I really like it. I am in awe with myself right now, and I know I keep posting about it. Yet, it is important and different and therefore blog worthy.

Yet, what you were really looking for was a poem so I will oblige and promise to continue working on the others even if I don't do them at 2 am I can still write in the afternoon.



Drugs
N. Jameson

My drunk head screams at me in a way that I have never been able to accurately explain.
I haven't touched alcohol in weeks
and cigarettes haven't crossed my mouths and lungs for months
The only drug pumping through my veins is an antihistamine
blocking my death by chocolate almost literally.
and it's not poetic that I am saving my own life
but my nose squeaks and the dark room isn't increasing
instead it is pressing into my sides like a dagger looking for a heart
my mind clouds with words that I can not trace
and my head looks for a pillow far away from my bed
half the time I don't even turn on a light
letting my ink flow onto paper and walls and arms
whatever it can reach to
when I lay down with a poem in my head
my mind will race and wrap around it intoxicating my body
I am lost in it, working it
never connecting with it
the words and ideas never specific but overlapping
I lose control of what is happening, and it just speaks for itself.