As I attempt to rub out sleep from my eyes,
A drum beats from the refrigerator,
Keeping time for the symphony of leftovers.

My fingertips linger on keys, craving creation,
Yet they hesitate.
A parallel to my overall static existence.

A constellation of stars swirls around the living room tree
Alongside glass, paper, metal, and ceramic worlds.
It’s 8:29 PM; my kin have succumbed to slumber’s embrace.

Contemplation lingers on the horizon,
As if the present’s abundance is insufficient,
Yet quenching this creative thirst seems a futile quest.

Bed beckons with its silent allure,
Yet yielding to its call might erase these lines,
A testament to transitory thoughts and ponderings.

Not profound in essence,
Merely a chronicle of current perceptions, safeguarding emotions and unease,
A subtle allusion to lurking apprehensions.

Should I linger here, fears may emerge,
Not to repel, but akin to an abrupt expulsion,
Much like bile spurting from an agitated stomach.

Preceding the upheaval, a surge of saliva,
Anxiety’s crescendo preludes the impending release,
A grotesque yet inescapable fixation.

Fear, a kindred spirit to this bodily reaction,
Anticipating a repulsive eruption,
Unpleasant, yet impossible to divert focus from.

Sleep calls, yet what if—
What if the next social interaction
Echoes destiny’s whispered summons?

Or what if this verse resonates profoundly?
What if a digital sanctuary douses my apathy’s flame?
What if a superior poem infiltrates these musings?

What if I’m meant for more?
What if the trail I tread is amiss?
What if the sands of time are running thin?

What if, what if, what if,
I wish, I wish, I wish,
Why? Why? WHY?

The furnace exhales its last breath,
Reducing the ambient whispers to near silence,
Save for the rhythmic tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, behind.

And there, that peculiar refrigerator beat again.

Perhaps worry yields no dividends,
Futile to pine for trifles that elude grasp,
If this is all, then this is all.