Insomnia by Richard VinceNothing keeps me awake like
A puzzle I cannot solve, a jigsaw
With all the middle pieces missing.
After years of searching, I still
Find only edges, and so I am left
With a frame without a picture.
My overactive imagination
Suggests all manner of things
That it believes could have filled
The hole in my past, but they
Are the worst sort of fiction,
And at heart I am
The worst sort of writer.
Eventually I move towards my bed
And the sleep I have long denied
Myself, but the direction in which
I should really be going is towards
A real future, with my back
Turned to the phony past.
08/28/2024 Posted on 01/31/2025 Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince
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