i'm building a rocket ship

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