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.