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3 a.m.

by J. Delaney-Howe about a year ago in surreal poetry
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Everyone Else is Sleeping

3 a.m.
Photo by Michal Vavro on Unsplash

It's 3 am.

It's 3 a.m. and my head is noisy inside, like all the playlists on my Spotify playing at the same time.

Everyone else is soundly sleeping.

My thoughts are racing like the scenery that rushes by you when you are driving on the highway, and you are driving so fast that the scenery just blurs together.

I take a drag off of my joint.

My anxiety is twisting my insides, and I feel like I am being squeezed in a big vise.

There is nothing new on Netflix either.

Paranoid speculations buzz around me, like a swarm of mosquitoes on a warm summer night. The kind of swarm that you just can't get away from.

I hit my joint again.

Overwhelming urgency about absolutely nothing. I feel like I need to do a hundred things. Only I don't. There is nothing to do at this time of the night.

Everyone is still soundly sleeping.

I am exhausted. My body hurts. My soul is numb.

It's 3 a.m. It is still fucking 3 am.

Thank you for reading my poem about the insomnia that comes with bipolar mania. I appreciate every read!

If you would like to read another poem I wrote dealing with bipolar, click here.

If you would like to read more of my thoughts on living with bipolar, click here.

surreal poetry

About the author

J. Delaney-Howe

Husband. Father. Artist. Writer. Seeker.

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