Wrapped in blankets, sitting crossed legged in bed,
Surrounded by darkness, checking the time.
Music pumping through low quality headphones,
Like blood pumping through veins.
Reading works of art and writing sad excuses for poetry,
Slowly typing out one cringe-worthy sentence at a time.
At this unreasonable hour, sleep is craved, but unattainable.
Wild, profound, foolish thoughts sneak into consciousness,
They disappear faster than they appear, leaving dissatisfaction.
Switching genres, working on first the short term idea,
Then the long term project, and back again.
Failing, giving up, crawling back, working harder.
Sleep deprived, but hopelessly, pathetically, restless.
Words do not flow so much as seep, and seep they do,
As painfully, and crudely as they possibly can.
Dissatisfied, but worn out, giving in, calling it a night,
Choosing to forget it, release it, unfinished as it may be.
Imperfections and all. Lazily editing, tiredly publishing.
No comments:
Post a Comment