Who is this that wakes each morning
a bit like binary.
Am I on or off today?
When living for tomorrow,
it's tough to be keeping time.
A lay away life
that's not mine.
A billion year itch that has somewhere to be.
Right THERE.
Termites in my wooden spine
buckling under the day,
like floorboards under my feet,
squealing with tomorrow
comparable to rings on a tree.  
A back breaks so you may know my calloused age
layered with the things I say.
It's no secret
my branches are blushing.
Sweet sunshine I'll save you
so soon we'll rake the sugar around me
and lose it all to my leaves
for the sake of where I sleep.
I am tired of tomorrow
this thing with no release.
In the backwards country roads of my mind
I know I am already there.
But on the tip of my tongue
I teeter upon
some see-saw child's play
of knowing better
but doing worse.
It's an intimate sense of hurt
that can't be contained in these words.