Morning day dreams and brain puss night screams. A poem about repetition.

I remember the days when I worked so hard that every night upon sleeping I felt as though i was laying the weight of ten bricks on my pillow. My brain had turned solid, stifled by the information I screwed into its once fleshy, open pores.

*

One time I felt as though my brain had turned into a brick, I worked it so hard.

*

I worked so hard that my head grew heavy.

*

I could barely lift my head I was so tired.

*

“Aw man, that’s nothing. I swear down I couldn’t even lift my head off my  desk working on that shit.”

*

I feel exhausted.

*

I work too hard.

*

My head hurts from overworking.

*

I don’t work anymore, but boy, when I did I worked hard.

*

Work? No way, I burnt myself out with that thing.

*

I’m on vacation.

*

I’m desperate for a break.

*

I’m frustrated that I’m burnt out. I want my work to mean something so badly, but I just can’t carry on.

*

I’m out of ideas, and I hate myself for it –

 

But this one time, I worked so hard…

 

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