"evenings marked by spirits and self-indulgence"

Alcohol and cigarettes
fill the time from
when I get home to
when I fall asleep.

Waking again the same way
I have a thousand times before,
the morning comes on time, as
always, and as expected,
though sleep rarely turns
out to be as refreshing as
I always imagine it will.

Important, empty tasks
mark each day's toil and
show how each day matters,
though somehow I feel like
I can't seem to make it
matter quite as much
as it once used to.

Today's labors lead
directly towards tomorrow's
which lead me still
on to the stressful
promises of the next.

Nothing has improved;
nothing has changed...
except perhaps my own perception
of how impressed the world has
become with my dedication
and proven worth.

The toils of days soon
melt into the toils
of many weeks, many months,
and still nothing has changed.

Endless efforts spotted with
fleeting weekends and evenings
marked by spirits and self-indulgence.

Literature, art, film,
small corner coffeehouses,
employment, exercise,
school, family,
friends...

Yet what have I really accomplished?