I hate mornings.
Not because I am tired.
I am tired later on too.
Everyone is tired
In the morning.

Mornings are quick,
Like the snap of a twig
Underfoot, scare away
Prey so important.

In the morning,
I do not have the time
To compose myself.
I am clear cut, raw
Honest and real.

The dissatisfaction
Is scrawled on my face.
Confusion settles on
Tufts of hair, like lice.

Confusion and anger
Bite my scalp.
Burning questions like scars
Into the roots of my ringets.

"Why are we still here?"
"When will we leave?"
"Why can't we be happy?"
"Is there something wrong with us?"

Mornings are a parade,
Exhaustion in the marching band,
Depression on a float,
And I lead the procession.

The wait

I feel the pull
Dragging me down
Pulling me under
Holding me beneath the
Of dreams not yet realized.
No breathing-
No sighing-
Only gasping and grasping
For a tiny bit of life
A new hope.
Finding only
Soul rendering despair
Deep in the darkness
Of each passing night.
At the same time
This comes to my mind
Im so hard on myself
I need to take a moment.
Sit back.
And marvel at my life
 At the grief that softened me
 At the heartache that wisened me
At the suffering that strengthened me

Despise everything
I'll still grow
I should be 
Proud of