A resting pencil
insinuates a dying
poet

im tired
from a lack of sleep
im tired
from a lack of love
im tired
from missing you
im tired
from not eating
im tired
from being so tired

It's been twenty minutes
And I haven't seen his eyes.
He blew his nose twice,
Sneezed once.
One time,
I saw him eat—
That was days ago, though.
His fingers tip-tap
On the click-clacking keys,
Hands moving faster
Than the greatest gunfighter.
He would never have
The patience or desire
To duel me, however.
I can't decide which I want:
To smash his face into the keyboard
Or to wrap him in fraternal embrace
Until he remembers he is human;
So I just sit motionless on the couch,
Guiltier than he.

It's 4:50pm.
The second hand ticks through the numbers.
Nobody stirs in the office.
Just heads behind computer screens.
I think about my daughter.
She must be starting to work up an appetite for dinner.
The manager sneaks out earlier than usual.
I think about my wife.
She's probably cooking up something delicious.
I stare at the screen. A new email.
The subject line becomes blurry as I stare back at the clock.
It's 4:51pm.

Guilt of lack of sleep
makes me decide to go to bed early,

Guilt of lack of accomplishments
makes me unable to sleep thinking about it,

Guilt of sleeping in and time wasted
makes me put 3 alarms at 6:01 am, 6:02 am, and 6:05 am,

Guilt of my emotions eating me up,
makes me unable to get up even when Im wide awake,

It turns out that guilt is the only thing I accomplish, allow to eat my day up, and yet can't decide on lacking.

We blindly type out of memorization,
We blindly write from practiced habit,
We blindly skip paragraphs, ignore articles, and pensively print upon the line without realization of what we’re saying at all.
We never truly see,
We deteriorate out of muscle memory
Absently offering an embrace neglecting to fully eyes-closed experience the wonderfulenss of it at all.
We go through the motions,
Dwelling in our minds straining its relation to our souls,
We no longer act in love,
But the muscle memory of it.
We look, but don’t truthfully see,
We touch, but forget to truly feel,
We hear, but we no longer listen,
We have flesh, yet we are merely programmed.
Advanced, but empty,
Knowledge unimaginable, yet still lacking,
Right, left, up, down, but do we realize the palpability and tenderness of the action?
Or are we too much on automatic?
In over drive,
That we forget to live out the littlest things and realize them to the fullest

Uncertain waves of wanted days no longer able to succeed as I am in bed.

If I am to recover with no help more I’ll raise a glass to the one who lies in my head.

The sensitive worm I have forgotten most of is taking advantage of my need to work.

And this sweltering swell balloons my need for closer analysis of my soon life after.