Insomniac

This really isn’t original fiction, nor is it poetry. I was just up late one night, having trouble sleeping and decided to pick up a pen and paper.
I guess you can consider it a poem with no regard to stanza or form.

My incandescent eyes refuse to sew their lids shut, nor are they willing to inform my appendages of the unforgivable hour they chose to dance. Every inch of my skin is tugging on my attention, screaming for freedom from the rough fibers of the sheets. But we’ve tried that before- it was far too cold for freedom. Comforters? Far too hot for comfort. It seems there’s no escaping this nightly dilemma. Only 4 more hours ’til dawn…