A Midnight Poem

The clock strikes Midnight — 12 o’clock. Mind screaming, body a rock. Too tired to wake, too awake to sleep, frightened of tomorrow’s beep-beep. WHAT THE FUCK!? My mind is racing like a bike, like Road Rash, where I did strike opponents with a foot or chain — WHY WON'T YOU JUST SHUT UP BRAIN! Struggling, but losing the fight. The boy needs fresh clothes tomorrow for sports, so he doesn’t have to borrow. Also what about the broken box? Rubber band or — OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHAT A HORROR? Little one needs clothes as well. Oh, how I wish I could tell my brain to stop thinking right now. Write it down? Tie a bow? Oh, what the hell! Weary flesh and aching bones, the others all sleeping like stones. Quiet! Quiet! So no one wakes up. Oh, how I rue that late coffee cup. “Time to write”, me moans.