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not_thepoet_hewantstobePoems
Quivering, my hands try to hold the thing most beyond man’s control. My bloodshot eyes cannot behold the weariness I can’t console. My achy bones refuse to move to encounter the vague unseen, to meet what latent dreams disprove in the fog of the in between. I’ve not adjusted to the light. I tried but my eyes weren’t prepared. I want the end to be in sight— the insight of which I am scared. When will at last I be awake? Is this the day I understand? I stumble out into daybreak to hold the future in my hand.
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Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
Every Morning
Quivering, my hands try to hold the thing most beyond man’s control. My bloodshot eyes cannot behold the weariness I can’t console. My achy bones refuse to move to encounter the vague unseen, to meet what latent dreams disprove in the fog of the in between. I’ve not adjusted to the light. I tried but my eyes weren’t prepared. I want the end to be in sight— the insight of which I am scared. When will at last I be awake? Is this the day I understand? I stumble out into daybreak to hold the future in my hand.
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#morning#woke#awaken#wakingup#hubris#uncertainty#future#insightshurt
Written by
not_thepoet_hewantstobe
M/USA
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC
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