Sleep isn't for the night

I lay awake at night

at all hours rehearsing 

words over and over

until they beat a rhythm 

in my head, staying there,

marching to their own tune,

a series of letters

confessions

always speaking the words

I won’t physically say

until one day

they beat too long,

too hard

and I wrote them down

fingers never as quick as my head,

getting ahead of itself.

My words are on paper

so finally they have stopped 

their relentless weaving.

Now when I lay me down to sleep

I hear silence instead of a broken manifesto

regurgitating endlessly

until the words were smooth,

until they came rushing,

flooding in

wave after wave

until they were done 

and dried themselves up.