A Poem by Chris Young

Tonight was promised to an early slumber;
Sleepless nights to be forgotten, long sleep to outnumber.
But now it is one o’clock, to bed an hour late;
Forgotten discipline to again instate.
Habits, caught easily, are rarely released,
Each instance rendered, habit increased.
This mind bemoans forgotten freedom unseen.
These squinting dull mornings are so cruel, so mean.
I won’t blame some enemy - my own mind is the seed!
Another late night, indeed, indeed!
Now its one thirty! half an hour more is dead.
Crap, If this line is last then I’ve gone to bed.

Note: I got a little help from this poem from writerhymes.com

Tags: poetry, sleep