Nightly

Sometimes thinking is a chore
Something my brain won't let me stop
But putters on forevermore
Skimming the chaff out of the crop
Disposing of the barley-meal
Leaving me only husks and rinds
As I attempt to sleep, I feel
The pressure empty yet it finds
A way, despite its oddity
Its merely psuedosentience
To keep awake and punish me
By making everything grow dense
Constricting that which ought to dream
Into a single, wakeful stream.