Soon it will be daylight
and I will have barely slept
My eyes are heavily weighed open
from the salty overtones that laced
the hours I’d wept
Internally
the thought has slowly crept
That my daily routine will
become an antagonizing puzzle
of great depth
The more that I falter and the less
that I’m adept
Because I’ve found that with little rest
I’m less rooted and
more inept
Especially in areas of my life which
are more like buffed out hardwood
and less like floors
I’ve merely swept
These monologues I’ve cached
carry such influence, they
harbor such heft
And the external colors are so noisy
that I’m practically deaf
But they’ve disguised themselves
as promises that I’ve been
too weary to have kept
So I categorize this series
of sleepless weeks
as a phase I must accept
Since most months I am boundless
when the bounds are
purely precepts
Otherwise,
I fixate on the paths that interject
Because I’m but a spore
in the midday sky
without much left
Wordsmith 