Narcoleptic

Bags underneath and bloodshot within,
Dust from the sandman and small flakes of skin,
The tick of the clock like old battered tin,
Yet inside my head is an unending din.

Red numbers in black read "four forty-four",
Through paper thin walls I hear people snore,
I don't want to be awake anymore,
Even to blink makes my eyes feel sore.

The night seems so long when sleep doesn't come,
I don't move for hours and my limbs grow numb,
Millions sleep soundly, it's alright for some,
Migraines start to pound my head like a drum.

The light dribbles in and I've had to lose,
Another chance to get a decent nights snooze,
Perhaps I should take to drinking more booze,
At least lack of sleep has provided me muse.