day 17; insomnia

My soul is dying
a little bit everyday.
The edges of me
have rounded as well-ground river stone,
my intricacies cut down to
smooth boringness.
The lines that define me
are fading—fuzzy
waning periphery at dusk.
The contours of my mind
are now dull. My thoughts
float trainlessly
in no forward direction
at all. My crying need
is sleep. Even now
I write half-blind
in the dark, nearly
forgetting what was
just written above.
My “i”s are off-dotted, and
my “t”s are cross-crooked.
My teeth are shifting and
my hair’s stopped growing.
Is what I’m doing
even considered living?
It feels more like
Undeath.