INSOMNIA

Drip, drip, drip, drip.
The noise of the rain gathers in puddles
as a backdrop for the
annoying thoughts and images and fantasies that dance, badly,
behind closed eyes.

And I know that dreams of the nocturnal kind
would be a far more productive way
of working through the internal drips
than is this uninspired dreaming
that is more correctly a resistance of all that is.

So I pray to the goddesses of the moon
to those who watch over the night
to intercede,
taking care to work on the conflicts
that now keep me from finding the peace of the darkness they create.

Instead, and unable to submit,
I create annoying poetry
dancing, badly, with words
in an attempt to quell their dripping within
and to empty myself of those forces that keep me from peace.