Only then, at the brink of despair,
when you can say truly I don’t care
and think of nothing and hold
yourself to that nothing,
until,
it gives in and lets in the opposite
Then to rush at the pack for some paper
and clack at the lighted keys
all night and all morning
like a dying breath,
until,
the last thought goes stale as death,
and you wake to sleep
But this,
not until the until,
does the most naked truth appear,
stripped down to its bones,
sharpened to talons that finally reach the point
They grip the purpose with hate
and caresse the night with everything else
anointing bit by bit,
This thing called sleep is slick
Mo Wenneker currently lives in Northern California. She studied History at the University of California, Davis. She works at a Charity Organization and spends her free time writing poetry, jazz drumming, and taking her dog on long walks.
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