After another terrible night of mental chatter I seemingly have no control over, I penned these lines to the fanatic in my attic.
A Poem Called “Thwarted”
If my will, will not be done
My co-operation cannot be won.
If I don’t get the sleep I so desperately require,
You cannot have the support you so casually desire.
Quid pro quo? No?
Well then, off you [insert your own expletive] go!
There’s some nutter in my head that is not me.
When will I be free?