Early Life crisis

Poem three

A happy insomniac

I haven't met the dweller in me yet.
How do I know he dwells?
He calls me every night to talk about all the dreams I wish would have.
He sings me my lullabies that keep me on the edge of falling asleep yet held tightly awake.

For me keeping a smile on, for more than thirty seconds outweighs the burden of walking a few hundred miles.
Not implying my soul nor being, rests in turmoil.
As with many things there is a beauty within the beast inside me.
Its a rather humble creature.
I do not know where he leaves to when the sun comes up. Nor do I know why he returns when the sun comes down.
Sometimes he does not care for the sun either.
And therefore Neither do I.
We speak in trains of thought that clash in a magnificent nova of sonances.
It is a beautiful thing to experience.
But my body was not made for such catastrophic art.
My body is too weak. It requires order.
My mind however demands chaos.
Anarchy runs through my veins.

Sometimes my friend does not come back.
On those nights it's order.
The emptiness of black takes me to a place that feels lonely.
No locomotives of wonder await me in such a realm.
My body is weak.
Therefore I sit in my cloud until the sun rises
So that my eyes can once again open.
Hoping, my friend returns once again.