Fatigue

Do you roll out of bed like a rag doll, minutes before the work day begins?
Only to prove that you can do it, with the possibility of a shower and shave long gone with the whites of your eyes?
Do your bloodshot pupils hover over the fuel gauge as you smoke the last cigarette that you had enough sense to save last night?
Is your lunch break filled with smoke and hunger?
Do you drive home hungry, on empty, aching, but at least with more cigarettes?
Is your night filled with superstition and sacrifice and blind ecstasy and loose bill folds and loose women and loose change?
Are you frightened of madness, oh Poet?