Insomniatic

I’m always too wired to sleep, The gnawing itch beneath my skin Fighting the haze over my vision. My body wins almost every time, Yanking me into fevered dreams That leave me nearly as exhausted As when I stumbled into bed. I barely have the energy To whisper through each day. It’s as though the more sleep I get, The more I desperately need. I’m reduced to little more Than a whimpering ghost. Invisible. Ignored. I choke on my own existence. If it weren't me, If I didn’t experience it daily, I wouldn’t believe such an unlife Could possibly be lived. I don’t go anywhere. Can’t, really. Not because I’m bound, But because the very idea Of enjoying myself just once Is horrifying.