somethin' gruesome, somethin' awful

i'm in the middle of my third assigned essay for university. and obviously, i am taking a break, to conserve my mental energy. and having a biscuit, to conserve my happiness.
essays are so redundant. you can find essays about essays on reviews of essays on books. i therefore submit that my shitty juvenile four page excuse for an essay is a dead end. nobody is going to write an essay about this essay. if nobody is going to read my essay, let alone write about it, what is the point of me doing it? everything is futile. not to mention my essay is a clusterfuck of completely opposing ideas and random theories. it's the verbal and visual equivalent of a huge bunch of jangling keys.
my little brain is not equipped to deal with this kind of thing. i'm a creative writer, my thought process is insane and delicate and not to be senselessly exposed to so many external ideas at once. i feel like my head will get full up and i'll start vomiting words. my mind is going to crumple under the sheer weight of the task it has been dealt. it's not even that i can't do it, because i was doing it dandily until i realised that it was a futile pointless endeavour. i get distracted almost ridiculously easily, from anything, even fun things, so this essay was always doomed.
more importantly, i did something creative for once. you know, like i always threaten to but never actually do? well i actually did. take THAT, poetry lecturer who doesn't believe in me.

Sunday

I woke up heavy as a stone; as grey as iron
Hours loomed ahead smelling like coffee and wet floor,
Looking gossamer fine with their lack of consequence,
Still, a purring black happiness sat on my chest,
Green-eyed and soft,
Completely unattached to me, and unable to spread.
Spirals of some dull feeling tessellated behind my eyes,
I couldn't wipe them away like sleep or tea stains.
Yesterday sat pungently in front of me,
Stinking and decaying like any wasted day does,
The dead potential hissing as it cooled and sending up olive fumes.
I could have gone to the sea,
Gone to the fields or the hills,
I could have done anything, or maybe something.
Now my head feels like an empty teacup,
And the cat's pissed on the stairs again,
And home is so very, velvety quiet.