Not quite awake

A sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdione

I feel so tired, I fell asleep again.
The page is blurred, my head fell off my neck.
Not me, I said, me snore? I must begin.
The words come slow. The work, I’ll do a speck.

I hope my face won’t hit the desk again.
To finish work, I must think deep and dig.
At times the page, and words, all look the same.
First draft will be like slop, before a pig.

Connecting this and that, the now and past.
I hope I can make sense of this when woke.
This heavy weight, upon my lids, won’t last.
At last, the sheet is full, my brains not broke.

We don’t give up and put the pen to rest.
Of all the crafts to choose, we chose the best.