My discipline is weaning; I should get up and do my chores.
This mess is brooding deeper and hiding all the floors.
The dishes smell like ****; the trash is overflowing.
Why, O why, do I stumble by and let this charade keep growing?

My vision has been blurring from pure domestic purging.
Unhealthy mechanisms have given to isomniac flurry.
A blue screen has been screeching; blue rays keep me awake.
I'm sick of turning over just to see that I'm a fake.