I stand in the middle of my room
Trying to grasp how
I am making known my existence
Because really
What else am I doing?

But my own days
They're just a continual mess of things
That never have any intention of being put straight
So I stand here
Making strange noises
On a Sunday evening
Not out of anger
Or toleration
Or objection
Or joy
But just so I can mark my place in time
Until the next thing happens