a poem by Krzeslawa T. Skrzypczynska, Poland - poetry writer, author, poet

I will never get rid of the impression
that my inspiration is bothering someone
in a smooth sleep,
that he is ruining at the same time
someone's life
and I should not do something like that.
That if the night is for sleeping,
and she’s accosting me at night,
should I let go and forget?
On the other hand,
someone else, in me, begins to demolish
and asks: why?
Why I’m not allowed to coughed?
Or have a drink of hot water?
Only because a flat is too small?
Why my insomnia is to be
choked and looped,
when I swallow, as usually,
a piece of chair or lots of screws?
Why should not I defend myself
even if it's only
sleepy visions?

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