slumber sonnet, hoped

Thinking of sleep, but that’s wasteful, is it

not?  How will that help me finish these projects?

Need another stroll set before I sit.

More visions, before distraction’s onset.

If Shakespeare were here, he’d be clear.  “Stop not.”

I’d probably write crazily, tire Self.

How can I keep conscious, with a knot locked?

Seeing things, draw through songs from a wired elf.

Maybe he’s a new character, gem pot.

Or, I’m in dreamt fields, already under.

Either way, I follow, solicit talk.

I’m dismissed, held by wrist, forced a runner.

Shamed by page notes, in my ways spoke.  Paid, no.

Blamed for days slow, but rest needed.  Aim, throw.