Writing Portfolio- Jared Fishman Age 17 Grade 12, Bronx High of Science, Gold Key

The clicks of clocks being all that I can hear

taunt my exhausted soul by bewildering my ear;

with a twist of the neck, a peek of the eye,

I see the vivid, red digits and begin to recite pi;

trying anything and everything to catch a single Z,

I stumble to my feet as I go to take a pee.

Standing on the frigid, firm tiles with only the nightlight to see,

my nitrogenous waste begins to flee;

heading every which way, high and low,

if it were winter there would be a hell of a lot of yellow snow;

a single thought, causing me to realize the seat is down,

I quickly flick it up thinking how my mother will frown.

As I pull to flush and turn the cold faucet on,

my senses tell me it is nearing the crack of dawn;

staggering back to my room, the comfort of my bed,

random thoughts meander in the abyss of my head;

only needing a sheet, since it has become spring,

the breeze from the window pierces my skin like a bee sting.

Tossing and turning, unable to even have a siesta,

I knew that evening I should have popped a Lunesta;

with a final attempt, my last chance of a snooze,

I reach over to the remote turning on some soft, soothing blues;

recognizing that I can never be enchanted by dreams

I stay up until sunrise to view its eloquent gleams.

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