It’s days like these that I feel the worst about everything I do.
Cheerful cherry blossoms spiral around my black cloud,
landing apologetically on my slouching shoulders.
The birds seem to quiet as I pass by,
refusing to meet my frigid eyes.
It’s the same routine,
addicted like nicotine.

Days pass by and my spiteful poetry grows,
prisoners screaming behind muffled reminders.
All they yearn for is to be as free as the tide
slowly teasing,
yet one day we will become those crashing waves,
luring other dreamers to awake from the haze.