I suffer from
Insomnia, a
condition where my heart

runs wild like a naked man
raised by wolves, my brain
ravaged by the sweet nectar
of the Bolivian marching powder,


my liver rot, soaked by the hard
liquors poured shot after shot,
like a montage of that lonely

guy sitting in the bar who just
got dumped by his lover, the
acid of lemons in my eyes, so
sour, yet I cannot seem to close
them as they glow red with hot











lava rocks, my body numb



but ecstatic, sparking with the



itchiness of a thousand crawling





ants but nothing’s there, yet I

still lie like a coffin in the dirt with












nowhere to go even though it pleads







to escape the haunting bugs that gnaw




through the pulpy decorated


flesh.


I suffer from insomnia.