By Tony DeLorger © 2011
That incessant clock is tick, tick tocking,
the sound of it the sound of mocking.
My fingers blurred my typing at speed,
my article undone the end not seen.
The pressure builds my heart instills,
my deadline the source of all my ills.
My mind a rattle of words contained,
spewed out in abstract places gained.
A jigsaw placement of meaning met,
I stumble, I hesitate, my thoughts regress.
Confusion reigns my heart explodes,
A stroke, aneurism, an attack erode.
I’ve done this once, I’ve done this twice,
why can’t I be calm and mellow thrice.
I edit lines, punctuate and in the end mediate,
to put this wretched piece to bed,
to remove it from my aching head.
Oh my God, it’s ten o’clock,
my conclusions unreached let alone locked.
I cannot take this pressured bed,
on which I lay and of which I’ve said.
I hate Fridays.
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