Those Listless Summer Days

There was a time when every minute, every hour was accounted for

Now, days flip by like the pages of the books I used to read

I don’t know what I wake up for, I don’t know why I wake up

It’s a randomly bizarre deadline of propriety that I feel compelled to keep

Where there were plans is bleak uncertainty

Like grasping at nothingness in an endless expanse of white

And yet, appearances must be kept up, illusory ambitions displayed as a sign of productivity

I don’t want the kind of

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obsession that makes people want to sell their soul for success

But is it too much to ask for a reason to look forward to tomorrow?

I spend my days finding new words to describe my tiredness 

Until I get tired of that too

There was a time when sleep was a refuge

Now, even she seems to look at me with the rebuke of a disappointed parent

The walls mock my aimless monotony

My phone’s screen is the only loyal companion

It keeps me in a druggy haze of inactivity.