Unconsciously Conscious Thoughts

Up to my neck in forty winks, Yet not enough sleep Heavy blinks appear to weep With blood-red tears, As the solace of years That pass against One who is rather crass No longer upper, middle, or lower classes, Just the chosen few, & then the masses Sewage trickles down, Surrounds us & soaks the ground Those simple thoughts, Can make my head pound Until i have found the inner peace Within, Relaxing in the mood to lounge Verb-ally Intransitive The last part of the stanza Felt off, yet, felt right To type, but, literature is a bonanza Rich with words & letters Don't be afraid to sound absurd, Practice makes better Never at the end of my tether