In the back of one's mind
right in front of these eyes,
horse blinders to the left
and to my right.
It’s 2 a.m. every 10 seconds
of my life.
Sitting always on this chair,
my neck snapping forwards to backwards
so violently, and whipping
me back awake again.
The waiting for that bolt of lightening,
the jolt of thunder to quake me
out of my slippers goes on.
2 a.m. and still waiting
for the magical words,
or just giving up and saturating
my already soggy cranium
with another **** show sitcom,
all for the payoff
of another lonely hour
burned to a crisp.
My wife bought me
a boomerang airplane pillow
to wrap like a comfortable friendly noose
around my planter head and in it,
I am a sitting duck.
I nod away in 10 second increments,
my dreams lovingly groomed and
coaxed into submission.
But I fight the sleep.
The struggle is real.
I want my last waking hour
to be glorious, to send myself down
with my creative endeavors left
dancing in the dark,
parading their proud feathers
like peacocks do when they flaunt themselves
across the gardens and driveways
of Arcadian delight.
I want to awaken with something
that bears the singed markings of the
creative spark.
To know I hit it before I quit it,
night after night,
early into the morning hours.
-Jeremy Szuder
