An Insomniac’s Loathsome Hue By Lauren Beckett
I got them four-in-the-morning blues.
Them tossy-turny, fight-the-light blues.
Can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
Craving, just itching, to be standing up straight,
but it’s still too early, and it’s too late.
That gray in the sky,
it’ll be under my eyes.
Can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
No books, no song, no magazine
can save my brain from the in-between.
It’s everywhere and nowhere, flooding my mind
just won’t go away, and so I find
I can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
Kick the feet and blink the eyes.
No matter what, the sun will rise.
Blanket, pillow: useless cloth,
got equal love and loathing for both.
Can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
Fall apart? No time for that,
nor itemize what turns to fat.
This here, that there, all in its place
no way, no how to break out of this space.
Can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
Clean and list and plan.
Every fire needs its fan.
It’s all a game I perpetuate,
no need or cause to hesitate,
but it’s still too early, and it’s too late.
Can’t do a damn thing to beat ‘em,
them up-all-night blues.
