There's a kind of emotion that pulls on your bones.
Drags you down into a soupy mess on the ground.
Fogs your mind like hot cold window glass
and your fingers into busted drums sticks
it plays staccato on your mind
dripping drums of water
tap against your will
Sleep.
Is it time to rest.
No.
But the fit, rote, life rider inside you says. No. Again.
And that devil on your back
of old limbs and half thoughts and lidded eyes keeps drumming on you.
And you can hold him back but he'll be drumming till you die.
Until the stern strong go-getter voice says. Fine. You win.
And you sleep the real sleep.
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