Bad Poetry

Written on 12/7/73, while sitting in the psychology department's tutoring room, bored and exhausted while waiting for students to show up. (Yup, I was a tutor when I was a senior).

Tired; very tired.
2:45 p.m. 15 more treacherous minutes.
I can't take it! I'll crack up!
I can't cope, I'll...

Control.
Control has been restored. The emergency is over.
Sanity prevails.

Why? Why? Why?

Don't know. Don't know if I'll ever know.
So tired. Need rest.
Want...

I don't even know what I want. I must be losing my mind. It's too quiet, but I like quiet.
Not the right kind of quiet.
Drifitng...drifting...drifting...

I'm back. Big deal.
I'm still tired...and confused. About almost everything.
Wow.
Hey, my head hurts. I want to sleep. Please let me sleep.
But not die. I don't ever want to die.

Maybe if I'm old and feeble. Or a vegetable.
I don't want to shrivel up and act senile. Never. No way, no how. Maybe if that happened...
I think I'm more afraid of dying than of death.
Tomorrow, I'll feel better. I usually do after more than ten (10) hours of sleep.
Revived, refreshed.
The problems will still be here, tomorrow.

So what?