Tired

I am sleep deprived. Those of you who are familiar with me will not be surprised by this statement. No, it is not because I go to bed at the unearthly hour of three in the morning, as many of my colegic friends are wont to do, nor is it because I awake at an hour as to totally diminish the affect of any early sleeping. Actually, that brings up a good point. Is it possible to get up so early that it doesn't matter anymore how early you went to bed, you still feel tired? I think that would be an groundbreaking study. Eat your hearts out, scientists worldwide.

No, friends, I am deprived because for two nights I went to bed after my bedtime of ten thirty. That's right, I have no stamina whatsoever, and after two nights of retiring to my bad at the unholy hour of eleven thirty (you may feel free to snicker at me) I am stumbling about, eyes glazed and half shut, pale, with drool coming out of my face, and my arms stiff in zombie like mode. It's kind of fun to walk around that way. You should try it sometime.

I mention this for one real reason. I want an excuse to post one of my stellar poems. Okay, it's not my favorite, but I was going through papers that my mom has saved over the years, and I found this pre mission piece. Sometime in the future when I'm a famous writer, there will be specific periods to my writing: Pre-mission, post mission, post matrimonial, etc. It'll be great, and little kids will have to remember dates and everything. Poor kids. If I have anything to say about a class taught about me, I'd make sure that there were very few dates involved. Of course, if you read "Major Bubbles needs a date," you'll probably realise that it's not far from what my real life was like, anyway. (Please DO NOT see that as a plea for a date, because it's just a joke!). Anyway, here we have a classic piece of pre-mission Major Bubbles working in a yellow paper medium, using a medium ballpoint pen. I unveil with pleasure the work "Tired"

Tired

When Bodies are tired
how fares the soul?
Does it fly to heights unmeasured,
or sink to it's lows unknown?

For myself, I know that
at night I find it hard.
My soul is heavy,
weighed with doubt, with worry.

You say that I'm a fool
taking my rest so early.
Leaving my turmoiled conscious
and fleeing back to serenity.

"in the morning," you say,
"you will surely regret
the early night and lost hours.
After all, you still must do much."

Even though I could argue,
show the pros and cons,
I leave the argument
simply at: "How are you?"

In the morning I have strength,
hope dawns over the ridge of despair,
courage at what will be done
filling me. I am light.

"How am I?" you say
repeating my question
as you prepare to rush
on to a world of industry.

The seventh hour, the last hour
finds me resting, healing.
Into my most basic feelings and desires
going further up, and further in.

You stop your hurried pace
and look into my eyes
directly, a pleading look, you concentrate,
open your mouth, and out comes "I'm tired."

Okay, so maybe it was a let down after all of the hype I gave at the first. I mean, I know that it didn't rhyme, that it didn't have a very deep meaning. But, oh well, I wrote it, you've read it, and life is pretty darn good.

Actually, if you don't like this, most artists aren't really popular until after they're dead, so maybe you should wait to pass judgement until a later day! Look for better and different poetry in the future.