It’s not 9:00 AM

There’s a finish-line some where.
Far off beyond the visible road.
I keep telling myself I’ll make it there.
A beautiful beach or some humble abode.

It is late and I am drunk adrenaline and caffeine.
Running out of ideas like a car low on fuel.
My eyes tell me there’s nothing just a blank screen.
Should’ve thought this through, but I am a fool.

24 poems. 24 f-ing poems. The number seemed candid
Each hour pushing myself for a little more.
And yet, the truth is that’s not what I landed.
Instead it’s a fight against myself. A great war.



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