it ain't the write time

The clock in front of me is much too tired
to tick
while my mind's cyclical thought process
is wound
to obsessive-compulsive
nonsense

and I'll get around
to making some sort of sense of this mess
of an attempt
at poetry

as soon as I lay down the lids
and commence
a thoughtless breath

where my dreams are simply void of

what if
and how come
or why not
am i able
with conscious ink
to write anymore
about
you