Why can’t I fucking sleep.

At what point can I call it insomnia.
At two in the morning the fourth night in a row,
or when I have to nap mid afternoon
at the same time as my one year old. No,
It isn’t quite there yet. Maybe in a week or so.
When the worry of how clean the house is
relaxes itself, when I feel like It’s tidy enough
for people to want to live with me.
Why do I find it so fucking tough
to scrub and wash and fucking buff.
Not all blue and they’re not quite green.
Even the dogs are sighing with dreams.

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