Sleep is over-rated,
A pox on pillow dreams.
When flushes prickle, hot and cold
And make me want to scream.
Toss and turn, throughout the night,
Patience wearing thin; now nature calls,
Sweet Molly Malone,
When will this nightmare end?
The wife looks on with pity,
My dear, your time is nigh.
So move on over, give me space,
Cause I feel like I will die.
Ah well, it’s not so bad I suppose,
As I watch the dawn and weep.
But I’m really looking forward to
A night when I can sleep.
© Annie Whitehead 2015
Written in response to Writing101: Poetry – Day 3: Sleep