My Poetry. The Unending Clock.

Lying awake, staring hard at the silent clock,
trapped alone in your own private, empty space.
Tick-tock, tick-tock is the only sound you hear,
no sign of sweet sleep, not a single trace.

You lay back your head, hoping simply to drop off,
but still your tired mind fights to shut down.
The brain is ticking, the mind is loudly roaring,
like the painted, hollow smile of a sad clown.

You get up again, sip some cold water,
then try to battle the darkness once more.
You throw the heavy duvet over your head,
after watching the unsettling shadows on the door.
Nothing you attempt can make any difference now;
you are more fiercely awake than you were before.
You try to read a book, attempt a dull puzzle,
trying desperately to unwind the tension held inside.

You dim the light, close your burning eyes,
praying that sleep will eventually come.
Try to unwind, try to still your racing mind,
trusting your exhausted body will soon succumb.
Lying here, still alert and fully conscious—
when will this cruel, repetitive nightmare end?
You watch TV, drink more fluids pointlessly,
but you know you're driving to a dead end.

Hours slowly crawl by, and still no sleep arrives;
it's just another one of those desolate nights.
Even the prescribed medication completely fails you,
you are losing the silent war and all the internal fights.
Morning brutally arrives, with only two hours of rest,
not nearly enough when you are obligated to work.
All you want now is to sleep forever,
feeling utterly defeated and like a bloody fool.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025