I can attest to the fact that:

Legs are always the first thing to go.

I wrote the first 20 lines of this poem a few nights ago while I was trying to go to sleep.
Getting those lines out helped.

Poem on the first time policy changed inside of me.

When I go running to stay in shape
I usually bring my iPod,
but it was dead, so I left it at home.
The second I stepped outside,
Spring ripped my eyelashes out
and said “Look at what you’ve fucking missed!”
And all the scenery began to sing its name,
so the grass was going
grassgrassgrassgrassgrass.
It was annoying and repetitive,
but beautiful, like a grandfather clock
on fire in a hip-hop album.
The trees were whispering odes
to the nests inside their heads.
So, I decided to do the same.
I pulled my eyes out
like robins’ eggs
and threw them into the air
to watch them hatch into
6-inch tall kick boxers with wings,
more lithe and spritely
than I could’ve imagined my thoughts to be.
The freedom in their movement
was unbounded,
etching its way into the sidewalk
that stretched into the horizon both ways.
I stood there blinded,
listening to eternity
and I realized this forever was inside of me.
My empty sockets were forced upward
as wings tore out of my shoulder blades.
My hands turned into swarms of bees,
dancing the location of every word
that I needed for a poem.
I’ve forgotten every feeling
but the silence I hear, perpetual.
When I open the lids
where my eyes used to be,
the vibrations of eternity,
the buzzing of over-weight wings,
and the energy of one-sixbillionth God
cascades down my face
onto a book created
when I hit my knees together hard enough.
And all of this would mean nothing
without the rest of God’s
ability to dream.

<end>

I finished the poem just now.
Sleep should come easy.
Goodnight.