fields of toil

i treat everyday
as the last one
but being a
cheerful dreamer
has always been
a fatal flaw of mine
and the fact that
i dont sleep has
made this last day
a continuous hell
of unfulfilled need
wrapping back in
upon itself until
even the hopefulness
that death must
eventually bring an
ending to this
goddamned punch line
sputters out has
reached a level of
absurdity in waves
of fleeting immortality
that i cannot quite
remember what day
of the week it is
when you only really
are alive five times
a month nothing can
pierce the layer of
despondency clutching
pleasure receptors
and dreams are just
the madness being
redistributed across
the landfill of
the human psyche
treating every day
as if it is the last
being aware enough
to see that the end
is always just far
enough away to be a
mirage in fields of toil

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