Dead Tired

A Writer's Cramp entry.

I’m so tired
I’m running on
4 hours of sleep
and lots of sugar;
I can’t see the insides
of my eyelids; I am mime,
unable to speak; I am pea
soup brain, (fogged) neurons
clogged by some sandbag
sluggishness.

And so I teeter on the precipice
of function, a steam train engine
bereft of coal, a piston engine
lacking octane, a waterfall
sans flowing and gravity.

I am an automaton,
a metronome ticking
not knowing the reason
for time’s being, let alone
my own, moving throughout
a deep, dark iciness called
existence, barely aware
of any pulse, any sign
of weak heartbeat.


24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
12-9-19