Gelatinous muscles
contumaciously refuse
to galvanize themselves
up
the
stairs
as my vapid brain
sputters and stalls like a broken down car
—the engine void of vitality—
as it grumbles
an unwilling retort
to
my demands for productivity —
or some semblance of creativity.
But what is productivity
at the expense of sanity
and
physical health?
My mind sapped
of imaginative
analyses—its
topography equivalent
to that of a dried prune....
A curmudgeon's countenance.
I write my wrist to death....
Until the nebulous haze
of exhaustion usurps me.
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