Late
Your arms are too heavy to lift.
Your feet refuse your weight.
You still push on and on,
But by now it’s way too late.
Your mind starts to float away.
Your eyes begin to close.
You say, “I’ll just take a short rest.”
And you begin to doze.
You wake up the next morning
With a foggy mind.
You want to roll back over,
But panic as you find
All the work you have done
was only in your dream.
How were you so stupid?
You've barely done a thing!
You rush to get it finished,
but you don’t have any time.
So you just start writing
anything that comes to mind.
Now you are running late,
And you’re not even dressed.
You decide to hurry your day
and skip your breakfast.
You’re too tired to even care
About the bags under your eyes.
You might have fallen asleep,
but the hour was still unwise.
You find yourself running around,
Unsure of what to do.
You can’t find your car keys,
and you’re still missing your left shoe.
You finally make it out the door
And halfway down the block,
When you realize you don’t carry your work,
But instead your alarm clock.
You rush back to your house
And slam open the door.
The breeze blows your work
From the table to the kitchen floor.
You gather up your work
As you try not to cry,
But your best line is blurred
By the single tear that falls from your eye.
You stumble back to your car
and slowly climb back in.
Your day has just begun
but you want tomorrow to begin
You hand in crumpled papers
That are now in disarray
As you flash a fake smile
And quickly turn away.
You get strange looks from those
Who finish their work on time.
You miss the looks of sympathy
from those who also fell behind.
How could your day get any worse?
Then you hear a whisper from a friend
Who says, “It’ll be alright.
At least you’ve handed yours in.”
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