Sonnet XI: Fifty Four Hours

It’s not much time, just two-point-two-five days
One third of the week, measured in hours
Another third I spend on sleep, which pays
Sans sleep, my waking life rapidly sours
The final third I often waste on sloth
While dishes go unwashed and chores undone
The flame of numbness finds in me its moth
In times I’m free, I rarely deal in fun
Yet work itself fulfills me, bar too much
It brings me pride to see a task complete 
Though many tasks don’t bring me joy as such
Without a source of pay, my stores deplete 
My time is spent well, it keeps me alive
Still I wish these words had greater fare to thrive