Wide-eyed lament

I’ve tried drinking
And I’ve tried music
But sleep, it doesn’t come.

I’ve tried vodka,
And gin and tonic
But sleep, it doesn’t come.

I’ve tried walking
And I’ve tried talking.
I’ve tried listening
And reading
Starving
And cringing.
I’ve tried friends
I’ve tried enemies

I’ve even tried cribbing

But sleep... it just doesn’t come.

H.A.T.E.

I hate the world, for all its people
And life, for its emptiness.
Work, for its pretensions
And God, for his followers.

I hate love, for its lies
And justice, for its keepers.
History, for our teachers
Religion, for the preachers.
Nights, for the insomnia
Day, for its length.
Friends for their absence
And doctors for their smell.
Relatives for their transparency
Children for their cruelty.

I hate time, for its elasticity.

Tragedies, for the comic-relief.
Bullies, for their fear
Movies, for the actors
Television, for the serials
Books, for the envy.

Smoking, for the smokers
Drinking, for the mornings-after

Jesus, for Paul
Ram, for Sita.
Faith, for its certainty
Music, for my inability.

Most of all, I hate me. For me.

Words alone do not a writer make.
Nor yet does a surfeit of imagination
or the art of a story teller.
But original thought,
a desire to see through to life's very core,
and having perceived the Truth therein,
to present it, with its lusture still intact,
to the world - that, is the calling.

Or, in other words, give me something to say.