Slow

The mind I have can only work so much
Except it really should be more than this.
But hey, I've done all that I need. As such,
The slightly more I can afford to miss
Until the day the more itself falls due
And my remission into laziness
Becomes its own reward, and turns the screw.
But until then, I really must confess,
I do not feel the need, and cannot make
My mind imagine that it ought to be
More pressured than it is for its own sake.
And so I wander through life lazily
Always so close to falling off the brink
That I can see the drop. It makes me think.