Sleeping Is My Hobby

Sleeping Is My Hobby

Sleeping Is My Hobby

I’ve always wondered why nobody
Ever lists sleep as their hobby.
When truth be told, if time allowed,
Most would nap beneath a cloud.

You chase the clock, you chase the pay,
But still, collapse at the end of day.
You call it rest, I call it art
A healing balm, a brand new start.

No small talk, no fake smiles to fake,
Just shut-eye for my own soul’s sake.
A soft escape without a fee,
More honest than your therapy.

My bed's no mere rectangle frame,
It's a sanctuary without shame.
My pillow fluffs like whispered grace,
And cool sheets kiss my weary face.

The couch? A quiet co-conspirator
That catches me mid-scroll or stir.
Its cushions speak in lullabies,
And rock me slow with heavy sighs.

The blanket wraps a velvet vow
“You’ve done enough, just rest for now.”
And in its hold, I drop my guard,
No deadlines, guilt, or work award.

Sleep does what no shrink can do
It edits pain and patches you.
It sifts the chaos, calms the mess,
And leaves you lighter nonetheless.

It drains the poison of the day,
Let burdens slowly melt away.
A midnight wash, a quiet sweep,
A reset coded deep in sleep.

No spotlight needed for my claim,
No prize, no need to chase fame.
If hobbies are what make you whole,
Then sleep, dear friend, completes my soul.

So let the world admire the grind
I’ll take the stillness, rest the mind.
For in my dreams, I find more truth
Than I’ve been told since restless youth.