weekend blues

i stare at the ceiling, just awake
what time of the day is it?
is it even day? or night? i debate
disorientation implicit.

i remember there's work to do
wasted the weekend have i.
food and drink are for survival no more
i fight an urge to thrive.

food and drink, i start to think
i have earned them not.
yet fed am i, with providence
leaving me senile and to rot.

i whip myself and rise to work,
see just a humble line on paper
while a myriad of such entities await creation
im rendered observer.

for more to come, and so to say
i'll have to think on toes...
for a brain on my foot, i pray,
for now, i forget my woes.