In a sleep deprived state

There is no such thing as color

Everything is grey

Or a shade there of

 

There is no such thing as

originality, or normality for that matter

"Everything is a copy

of a copy

of a copy"

 

No memory is required for a living insomniac

There is no thought or focus

My recollection of anything and everything is as blurred and distorted,

as images printed on wet toilet paper

That is where the healing power of amnesia comes in

 

The only audible sound is

The slurred speech

Of that internal conflict

Whurring in your mind

The battle between lethargy

And the constant undead feeling of

An un-alert consciousness

 

Entranced in a stupor

The eminently plain corners of your walls become

More and more entriuging

Zoning becomes as common as breathing

[Which you do much less of]

Turning away would require the will power of putting a gun to your own head

 

This is my life as an insomniac

Countless hours and days and weeks

Of nothing but nothing

Boredom

And the tendency of random thoughts invading your mental

All traces of light

Not already established in your peripheral

Will burn any sign of your cornias

 

This is a lonely state

There is no color

Just shades of grey

Which makes the flag of this lonely state

The darkest shade of grey

Like a black and white film

Recording hours and days and weeks

Of nothing