What do you do to improve your sleep?
Recently, I’ve been battling insomnia. Here’s a snapshot of my experience.
Note: This poem was published as part of my poetry collection last year. For this piece, alternate rhyming is utilised.
Awake in the dark hours, unable to shut down
The vicious minutes go by his mind an F1 driver
Looks at his Mac, a wayward pawn
Hot and cold for ages, he requires a breather
At first the morning coffee made him jittery
Slept three hours and no more
Changed countries but the theme had consistency
Tossing and turning, he’d trade his long day for a snore
Many evenings passed before relief
He’d wake up early and walk in the park
Met furry critters he admired their cheery owners’ self-belief
Others had the same idea, jogging on their mark
In time’ he’d know the regulars, the bona fide from fake
Couples were outliers, often twas the pet and owner
Brits and Aussies, old and young, thin and overweight
Dogs did tricks with the odd Labrador retriever
The world wound down as his insomnia carried on
No cure but healthy sleep hygiene
Lasted a week or two the battle was not won
A regular bedtime, milk, a warm shower, avoiding naps, alcohol, and caffeine
Slumber is a necessity that became a luxury
We get bombarded with sleeping aids
From white noise to warm milk, whale sounds to worry dolls, melatonin to astrology
If you’re facing a loaded mind, what’s the difference? Your restless noggin won’t surrender to fits of rage
He saw a retro film, The Machinist
Starred Christian Bale and Jennifer Jason Leigh
Bale is a skeleton, fifty pounds under his usual weight though no catastrophist
Works in a car factory and dates Leigh
She jokes that ‘Nobody ever died from not sleeping’
The movie was well-received imagine if it wasn’t
Bale shed his kilos for nothing might’ve quit acting
Months later, he bulked up for Batman couldn’t look like a peasant
A muted voice, an irrepressible night owl
His thoughts wander, as do his steps
Sees them from afar, drunk women, a battered car, even, he swears, a coyote howl
Try as he might, his brains could not settle, not after many exercise reps
Dwells on the past, as the present he cannot decipher
He glimpses the future, when he’s writing manuscripts, a dream roaming free
Tomorrow is an irascible vulture
Counts his eggs before they hatch though it’s silly
There is no escape; ‘When it rains it pours’
Tip your hat and hope it’s better
The insomnia resolves on its own goodbye, insufficient hours
When the swell has ran its course his conking out is back together
This stingy shuteye hovers, a bleak shadow
Doesn’t really go away
Is it the change in seasons? Stress? Lack of exercise? No beef bone marrow?
Who are we to judge? With his next release, he’s never astray.
