Monday, March 3, 2014

I no longer know of what I am writing

I no longer know of what I am writing,
I am now but a mad man, deeply indicting,
My thoughts are senseless and irellevant too,
I feel as an elder in a dreary, thick mist of blue,
Aimlessly walking throughout this life, as it were,
Unsure of consequence, and totally blissful for sure,
I sleep as I return home,
Do little so much as to stare at my comb,
Later to merely fall into great slumber,
Counting, one, two, and many a number,
For I was sleepy, I was tired,
I was all but wired,
Throughout my day of heavy backpacks,
And high stairs with little slacks,
My back, hurts throughout the day,
Is but fine as I may make my way,
Into drowsiness, that big confusing plunder,
Never to be interrupted, not by alarm, nor by thunder,
I dream, I think, I feel,
Of events that will never be real,
Reviewing my day, thought by thought,
Of homework, tests, and goals yet to be sought,
This is the time where I care very little,

16. October 2009 

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