3:42 in the morning

3:18 am and I can’t sleep. Now it doesn’t really matter you see, because I am an insomniac and a black coffee doesn’t help at all. And when you are lying awake in bed and thoughts of angels with purple grey moth-eaten wings who ride on crimson clouds come to your mind you rather stop trying to sleep. And so here I am.
The strangest thing about my imagination is that it is so manic depressive. I am not. My imagination is. It fucks me up at times and sometimes it makes me happy. And I still can hear the laughter in my brain. And sounds of doors closing/opening. I see colors too in my brain when I close my eyes. Sometimes they are shining and vibrant and most times they are plain stupid. I can’t trust my perceptions anymore. I try so hard to be normal and I fail utterly. But I reckon I’m a hard nut. An incorrigible optimist. Yes..it’s me I am talking about. You can smirk but that’s what I really feel. How else can I explain the desire which comes again and again to try and improve my life? To be like..normal. Now you might say that’s not a big ask. But for me it is. Maybe I am a genius of some sort. Not understood in this century and maybe read about in some years later with a book titled “The Life of a Misfit: Lessons from tragedy”. Fuck that! That’s a bad title, but know what I don’t care. I wanna write a poem now.

Obscure are the pages
Of time in which I sleep
And you float,
In the water of the ocean blue
That hangs upside down
Moist filled blue eyes
Dark as dark as babies cry
Sleep the mighty bird
Flies in the vastness
And pages of time flutter
No sound is heard
I did not see me die.
The stage of the world
Is a disappointment
The curtain is too heavy
And I am too frail.
So look up in the sky
The optimist in I
The bird is caged
The eyes have dried
Still no sound is heard
I did not see you die.