The shades are drawn in endless daylight, begging the night to fall yet loathing the months of night that will too soon follow these endless months of days. Sleep does not come swiftly as feet twitch restlessly under cool sheets. The mind relives peaceful mornings by the creek with fishing rods in hand ******* on lollipops and skipping stones. Stones that for others seem to float on the surface, yet, thrown by my young hand sank like the rocks that they were. click, click, click, the beads of the abacus counting time in my dreamlike wannabe state. The beep of the microwave oven jars the mind and the scent of coffee wakes the brain, only to realize it was the sound of the alarm clock and the cupboard does not hold the coffee so loved in dreams yet detested in reality. The solitude of morning, which looks like evening, which looks like night tastes like rotten onions in the mouth you struggle eat with. Remnants of equestrian dreams linger in a hazy head pounding like a basketball across the the court. The lampshade is covered in a purple scarf, giving off just enough light to not have to open the shades.
Day begins with a gargle of mouthwash that tastes like Campho Phenique
hoping to get rid of the residue of rotten onion dreams that remind you of a life you never thought you'd live.
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A friend threw the following words at me to use in a poem. Challenge accepted. :)
feet
shades
solitude
equestrian
lampshade
abacus
microwave oven
basketball
lollipops
fishing rod
campho phenique
onions