aplus
08-09-2005, 07:25 AM
http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=398161
It is still taking me like a week between poems, so I guess I still am working my way though the block. Hate it or love it, but let me know what you think...1
An Insomniac’s Lullaby
Police sirens holler after midnight,
Waking the neighbors but keeping me company.
My mattress would tell you, if it could talk,
Of restless nights trapped in a buzz of lust,
Time spent mastering the broken syntax of sex.
My bedsprings would sing ballads of the times
When I sought the promise of pleasure
That’s locked within a stranger’s careless touch.
My bloodshot eyes remain eternal witnesses
To the perverse nocturnal maneuvers
That I cannot take back, actions that dwell
Inside my conscious like sinful mementos.
When sensuality doesn’t prop open my eyelids,
The edgy hours of darkness torture my soul,
With heart palpitations and chilled sweats,
Blurred moments of genius and melancholy,
Childhood terrors and adult fantasies,
And musical riffs playing incessantly
Inside the confines of my mind,
An insomniac’s lullaby that steals my sleep,
A testament that some dreams are destined
To be left abandoned atop a pillow,
Along with the imprint
Of my tired head.
It is still taking me like a week between poems, so I guess I still am working my way though the block. Hate it or love it, but let me know what you think...1
An Insomniac’s Lullaby
Police sirens holler after midnight,
Waking the neighbors but keeping me company.
My mattress would tell you, if it could talk,
Of restless nights trapped in a buzz of lust,
Time spent mastering the broken syntax of sex.
My bedsprings would sing ballads of the times
When I sought the promise of pleasure
That’s locked within a stranger’s careless touch.
My bloodshot eyes remain eternal witnesses
To the perverse nocturnal maneuvers
That I cannot take back, actions that dwell
Inside my conscious like sinful mementos.
When sensuality doesn’t prop open my eyelids,
The edgy hours of darkness torture my soul,
With heart palpitations and chilled sweats,
Blurred moments of genius and melancholy,
Childhood terrors and adult fantasies,
And musical riffs playing incessantly
Inside the confines of my mind,
An insomniac’s lullaby that steals my sleep,
A testament that some dreams are destined
To be left abandoned atop a pillow,
Along with the imprint
Of my tired head.