12:33, My Manic, and Me

Feeling manic, I couldn't go to sleep, so I wrote a poem.

This cold, guilt-laced anxiety

is gnawing, chewing, torturing me.

I know it’s already 12:33,

but what I need is productivity.

It’s never enough,

never good enough. 

Just pretty pictures, art lessons, and stuff.

I need to create;

to make something great. 

But it’s already late,

so I guess it can wait…