the inevitable

*twelve

i can't tell if it's the lack of tears,
or the shake in my core,
or the unsound silence in my mind.
like static, my fingers touch and feel nothing
numb from the scanning, searching, working.
An endless cycle of rest and no rest with nothing else to blame but my own.
I build and build and build and build.
My hands are aching and tired
with sleep being the only resistance,
Time against me in every way.
Where is my work?
Where does it go?
I search everywhere
and come up empty handed.
How could I be so exhausted?
Everything I do
falls through my fingers like sand.
I cannot grasp the achievement
that everyone else seems to so eagerly obtain.
Like a foundation being built a hundred times over.
My growth, a waste of time;
for there is never enough
never an end