Concentric circles and Wasted time.

As the night condenses to litter grass  
stems with morning dew, realization dawns  
on me (I’m still here, I’m still here).  
Rivulets of spilt milk mix with an unnamed
emotion as they meander through the valleys  
of my wooden desk, and I wonder if you cut  
off my head would there be nothing but  
concentric circles which confirm years  
of wasted time?
 
A pen slumps in my defeated ink-splattered hand,  
whilst a dozen ideas beg to be formed in the other.
I'm praying for the starting gun to fire permission,  
my mind prepared to race forward at break-neck  
speed to find the answers I breathe for.
Eyelids droop and fingertips tremble.
I think i'll just sleep.