Losing My Wits in July

sleepless nights crash into bleak mornings' hue—

thoughts racing, tripping, and building like bricks—

and my mind is like a pot filled with stew,

boiling over and getting hard to fix.

*

telling, trying to warn, someone seems rash—

no one went crazy from losing some sleep—

but starting to see things appear and dash

feels like an omen struck fast, lightning deep.

*

hearing songs on the wind no one else knows,

telling secrets of people yet unknown,

trying to get it all down in quick prose—

you almost might think you're tied in the zone.

*

but it all unravels in threads one day

and there are no tales left to share or say.