my brain has chosen auto pilot
the way it never should when one’s tears streaming cheeks deep in
i don’t want to do this
my hands want to make
and they do when given chance
but this skull protected meatloaf is stubborn
laying in bed doesn’t do any better
it’s supposed to be breathing me new
but my back groans of drowsy
as it holds up eyes that search for anything but this damn blinking line
i mean i saw this coming
i already left myself enough days to sit around before fruits of concentration deteriorate
when everything says no to function
but all i want to do is sit here and paint deadlines away on this puppet
i’m almost done