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.

Kommentera här: