I lay awake to the sound of sirens,
the morning bustle and calamity.
Busy people among relentless lives,
breathing in their first breathes of the day,
Echoes of the coffee stirring and pitter patter
Of footsteps leading their way
But I remain here, stubbornly in my bed,
With an unwillingness to start.
For the curvature of the bed,
made by my own brutish heft
feels as though a valley to climb
has begun to steapen
The reluctance to clamber my way
Out of these walls
Has devoured my will to move
And I will remain stuck here
Until I am yanked with force
By someone who cares
Probably shouldnt ve writti g poetry this late