Looking at myself in the mirror...

What am I doing?

I type this with heavy hands.

Almost to weak.

Or I could draw

But my fingers are clumsy tonight.

I'm running out of time.

Better find myself.

I trip and fall.

But can't lift myself.

Hell, this poem doesn't even rhyme.

Or have rhythm, for that matter.

But I guess I'll get up.

If only for another week.

If it affords me grace...

I'll do it.