Compulsion

the eyes are already tired
wanting sleep
but the fingers still want to caress
the words
for another poem

a bad poem,
a demanding one
vomiting
words with no intention of making any meaning at all
it is this compulsion
the body resisting sleep
a rehearsal for death
the eyes are not aware of this
it is the spirit
that oozes in the fingers

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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