i can always tell
it is three o’clock
in the morning by
the sudden flash of
wakefulness that
sweeps through me
with an adrenaline
burst erasing dream

my brain gets itchy
at eleven eleven
an overpowering need
to write overtakes me
high tide laps hungrily
at the crumbling shore
a tsunami of words
drowning rational thought

if i manage to string
together a few hours
of mostly restless
unsatisfying sleep
i will still wake
three minutes before
the alarm blares out
futilely grasping for more

time is a human construct
conditioning us to be
productive cogs in the
machine that only consumes
we are forced to ignore
our inate circadian desires
to fatten the bellies
of the pigs in charge

if the gears could turn
the directions that
they desire to move
the machine would shatter
and what is left
would be a true monument
to what humanity itself
is capable of accomplishing

i long to sleep when
i am actually tired
to lounge as the sun rises
listening to birdsong
waiting for you to rise
so we can spend the day
watching the people
then writing poetry

sometimes the squeaky wheel
requires a little grease
sometimes the squeaky wheel
is inciting a riot