Your daughter is a raging insomniac
Who holds time at the tips of her fingers
And it always
Slips through

She figures any other virginal insomniac would grow bored by
Day two.
The quite less wholesome one would be half as clean as she
Wants to be
so it all fits perfectly
except she could quite possibly start to see things differently
Or

Walk around all night and forget
(How did her clothes get on?)
Her retinas are throbbing from the piss colored street lights she's been staring at
No doubt she's walked these roads before
Hearing songs that sing of sleep and rest

But never actually falling into it
She isn't even that tired
But there is nothing for her to do

Because

All the other reformed insomniacs have slipped into slumber
She watches each day go in
Go out
It's boring truthfully
She wishes her lids could feel like lead and for her breathing to

Slow
Anything to escape hell!
If only for a short while…

That's all she ever asked
Your daughter is a raging insomniac
She holds time at the tips of her fingers
And as always
It slips through.