To What Must Be Done

As night becomes day and day to night,

I sit at the counter, alone but alright.

Dreaming of a day during which I work

Not from neccesity but with an earnest smirk.

For now, though, I am awake

And learning how ambitions take

All my hours of rest and turns them to

An unyielding, undying quest

To succeed better than the rest

But yet I remain as I was prior:

Tired.

And so as my pen writes my answers

to the questions lying on my paper,

my eyes do close,

and I do suppose

that I to you shall address this letter.

- Myself