I suppose I should get up now, I really should.
It's all that stands between me and the things I could
Do to better myself, and start my day,
And walk, or run, or both, and write and say
Things needing to be said, to make a living.
My inbox is an easy task, just one foot then the other.
It's mostly spam or nonsense anyhow, so no bother
To read, and click, and click, and read, and rinse
Repeat, until they're gone and done, since
After that the way is clear, to make a living.
And yet both quilt and mouse feel heavier than lead.
Despite the promise of efficiency's thrill, instead
I wait, and frown, and twitch and drown in all
The teeming, scheming, demon-filled hell
Of distractions keeping me from living.