Playing The Creator's Game

Tired. Tired. Always tired. Never rested. Only exhausted. Running. Running. On the field of battle. Chasing with all the strength I can call, For the far off dot, seeming insignificant and small. Why do I do it? Nature hath gripped my soul. Instincts kick in, adrenaline in steady flow. Running. Running. Closer and closer I get, Only to feel the blow at my side and have my balance unset. Rolling. Rolling. Will I ever stop? Sure enough I do, just in time to chase the dot. Sprinting. Sprinting, as quickly as I can. Reaching, reaching with the extension of me, Desperately trying to claim this dot, for anyone else’s, it cannot be. When from nowhere a voice berades me; YOU WILL FAIL! FORGET IT! I hear but cannot see. This piercing cry, does it come from within or without? That penetrates my soul, filling it with fear and doubt. Too late, for a new blow, now at my back, Sends me flying and flailing, disrupting my attempt at attack Falling. Falling, I have no sense now. Until it is thrown back to me, upon a meeting with the ground. As I lay, embarrassed, disheveled, defeated, My eyes grow dark and clouded, as though all light has retreated. Tired. Tired. That is all I feel. Wanting now to sleep forever, but holding on to conscious still, For if I sleep now, wake up, I never will.