This ceiling fan is too loud.
It asks me to look at it.
And show my angry face.
I want an air conditioner to be proud.

The window is closed.
And the birds are happy.
They don’t have to see my face.
And pity on my life.

The cell phone wants me to touch it.
And pour the tears in silence.
It does not care of my head.
That starts hurting.

Old books remain silent.
Flattering its leaves in the air.
Dusty and old smell that they love.
It hates me now.

My pillow wants to cover my face.
And not let the sunlight on me.
To forget the humming bee.
And shut my friends out.

I have become this person I hate.
No work done, no schedule kept.
I want a drink that I know is wrong.
And the minted cigarette to find my colour.