The Impossible Paper

Gravity feels like a demon right about now,

gripping at the skin sagging below my

turquoise tinted irises,

 

digging its pointy claws into my eyes,

shooting branches of red through

white skies of despair.

 

I’m hunched over words painted in

desperation, my eyes

jumping

 

over

the                                               same

black

 

blocks

 

but the pink prongs behind in seeming disconnect,

no longer intact with

the cognitive functionality of

my brain.

 

I break the repetitive reruns

of my racing eyes.

 

My paper still awaits the grace of my pen

but nothing appeases it.

 

My hands lie still, my firing neurons

now in hibernation,

my brain activity

reduced to nothing.

 

I do not walk,

I do not move,

am I even here,

actually awake,

at this hour?

 

The demon’s claws have slinked further,

staking claim to unguarded territory,

 

territory let down in deprivation

and now forced up in a

tight,

uncomfortable

clutch.

 

In its claws, my virtues bleak,

the intrinsic motivation once sourcing my fame

seemingly nonexistent,

hidden in the devil’s woods,

present, but invisible,

a ghost bound to purgatory,

the corpse present in a six foot hole,

but the soul somewhere unbeknown.

 

My paper awaits,

but I make no move.

My brain is numb.

I am officially burnt.

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