ergo

I sit here,
And I might as well be dead–
Stuck in a seemingly perpetual day
Of pretentious smiles and interest.
Forced to show the barest hint of concern
When in truth I’d rather be in bed,
Alone with my thoughts
Or perhaps a song in my mind–
Anything away from this,
Anything away from here,
Anything.

 
I sit here,
Feeling undead–
As if the light inside is no more lit,
But the muscles tweak and work, down to the tiny bits.
But the rest of me
Is begging, longing, crying
For the lofty bed I left this morning,
For the warmth left in my bed from last night,
For the folds and creases I could sink myself into.

 
I sit here,
And the unbearable urge won’t let me sit still–
To write, to think, to free my mind,
To say something, to jump, to speak,
To sing, out loud, alone.
To create, and destroy,
Until there is nothing left,
Nothing else to do,
But to, again, create.

 
I sit here,
For a few more hours,
Just a few more hours–
Four and a half, in fact,
Just a few more hours
Til I can close my eyes
For days and days on end
Til I go back again,
Til I sit here, again.

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