Which ideas did I already commit
to the hallowed pages of this digital library?
Which thoughts or strange oddities
have I already poured out,
assembling the words
I felt correct to adequately convey
just what was going on upstairs?
Is there enough tumbling about on that
peak to reach the end
of a second, or third, fourth or fifth year?
Or will I regurgitate my own self,
copying from my homework
to lacklustre results,
begging for applause?
Fear stands to my side,
we dare not look at each others pupils
for the answer is an arrow of doubt
piercing my heart.
I am closing in on another finish
and I wish to jump to a third marathon
from on high,
but we both fear.
We fear the fumes,
the empty tank of gas I carry upon my neck.
Can you run out of words
and if you cannot,
am I to be the first?