tired and bad poetry

so exhausted that I cannot sleep
my brain too tired to send the message
to the rest of my body
that it is past time to go bed

the day blurring with the night
the day the night is blurring with
and I sit awake actually thinking
about the way they rival each other

that's how totally drained I am
my energy turnip actually squeezed
to the point it finally buckles and bleeds
from that little prick; insomnia

burrowing a hole inside my sanity
that is sharp enough to plague me
but not to put me to final rest
day after day, night is alive

and I am dead tired of
talking of day and night
and turnips drawn of blood
and writing a terrible poem

that I might read someday
another time when I've lost sleep
and if unable to find it again
will likely resort to writing another