Fucking Pandemic, yo

Wound down like a clock

On my wrist

I don’t notice

Until I compare my time to another, because I suspect

Something is off

And I listen

Is it ticking more slowly?

I *think* so

Modern poetry uses asterisks

For emphasis

And wind up clocks

As Metaphors

But, I *am* wound down

And it *did* happen slowly

And my funny isn’t as

And my patience is thin as

And I bore myself with my hibernation of self

Coffee will certainly fix

Thank god for having depressive episodes

In the before time

The don’t get out of bed time

The fake it all of the time

Years ago, but visceral memory remembers

Because, I know that I’ll get wound up again

And this aint the fault of my internal fortitude neither

It’s a fucking pandemic, yo.

And it winds ya down