i had imagined
doing two days
worth of work
in one day would
have made sleep
an easy commodity
as i laid in bed
with nothing but
my pulse throbbing
in my injured thumb
physically drained
emotionally irrelevant
staring at the ceiling
the entire night
trying to figure out
how to escape my mind
until the alarm
sang a song of
indentured servitude
on another coffeeless
mourning of my
own discontent
unable to do
the basic routines
without use of one
opposable digit
i see i am of
no more use than
a monkey flinging shit
at his cage in the cold
wondering where all
the zookeepers have gone

and unnecessary
having issues
buttoning up
my work shirt
uncertain as to
where my purpose
vanished to
a failed poet
killing himself
to barely survive
unable to tell
if i am speaking
or if i have gone
mute in my solitude
a worthless monk
praying to nothing
and hoping to
be heard

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