I don't name poems

Sitting here as the minute hand ticks on
Blood trickles on…
Thoughts are slow- come and go,
Sparked by nothing much
Reality slaps me, soft as a touch
I’m wasting this moment
Nothing to do- but I can’t escape
What is the point of seconds like these, those, them?
The point is delayed,
The essence wasted
And still I sit here
Bored by the dull monotony of a slow pace,
Or plagued by the pending demise-
Brought on from lack of understanding-
Lack of time that could be better spent
And again ask myself why, but it’s clear
The greatest of outcomes always carries hardship or boredom, or both,
Along the path to attaining it
My end result better be great.