Work to Be Done

No, you do not feel like it. 
You are unsteady and unsure in the morning light,
unsure if you have the steadiness of hand
to do the work. You would rather sleep.

But you do not. You fight your heart
and take the tools, familiar and heavy,
and begin.

About this poem

About mornings. About depression. About will. Preaching to myself. Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom