The Fatigue of Being Fancy

My sluggishness was getting the best of me,
but I did not know what was left of me,
what could, in fact, be the best of what was left,

I was very, very tired,
and sometimes I thought that saying it out loud justified my lethargy,

but it did not,

there is no record of it.
no ledger lodging when I shut my eyes,
no listing of my lazy endeavors,

And when I started rubbing my eyes,
I knew it was bad,

that was merely a precursor to uselessness,

but I wanted gas from my empty tank,
I wanted to be useful to someone,
if not to me,

but I was slow,
stagnant,
sedentary,

down for the count,
with no desire to get back up,

I used to have that desire,
maybe that was the best of me,

It got so that I liked these wounds,
even the silly ones that required attention
they were necessary evidence,

no longer the hindrances and obstacles they once were,

and that is how I knew just what was left here,
what was left of me