Decorating a Christmas tree, 
Lights cast taught.
Seeing beads of light – asymmetrical, imperfect.

Grease in my hair and oil on my face, 
Piercing uncleanliness.
But sharper is the ground leading from bed to shower.

My dim bedroom, gentle gleam locked just outside the door. 
Impulsed to flip the switch,
Yet paralyzed
By the dark, lulling me 
Deeper
Into
My mattress.

A rope drawn tight.
Bundled fibers stretching,
Each popping slowly,
Then swiftly shredding.

Aching discs in my spine and joints in my knees.
Exhausted from a journey to promised paradise I’ll never witness.

It’s endeavor that will only satisfy me
If I give one hundred percent effort on an empty battery. 
Impossible to appease myself,
Unwilling to set sound standards.

Notes and edits I’ll never get around to correcting. 
It’s smudged lead on ripped paper –
Imperfect and unable to 
Erase a history of mistakes.

A quota with a hole at the bottom 
I perpetually pour myself into.