The days go by like water from a leaky pipe
Slowly but consistently, in spurts with dry spells in between
Sleep, boredom, and self ignorance is the last remaining gripe.
An insomniac at the precipice of life,
between waking and dying
between living and laying,
Surrounded by one’s fellows, but utterly alone,
like the madness of a statue sealed in silent stone.
A cup may runneth over, but how does one atone.
Time, food, and money in plenty, but nothing less to waste,
No activity, no fun, no lesson, but all is done post hate.
An insomniac, who lays still, stiller than the dead
Listening to doubts and worries, yet all is in his head.
A Well Organised Asylum 