I’m not a morning person,
yes, I enjoy eggs, bacon and golden toast,
the hiss of butter in a sizzling pan,
sunlight warming my skin through half open blinds
but even the promise of breakfast
cannot persuade my bones to not ache.
The alarm feels like an accusation
when it goes off
signaling a new dawn
that I am not prepared for.
I’m not a morning person,
yet I get up every morning and go through the same routines.
Exhausted, but I push anyway,
folding myself into schedules and expectations,
ticking boxes my hands know by memory.
Constantly stuck somewhere between obligation and survival,
Repeatedly asking myself if there is a point to all this?
I’m not a morning person,
but lately I’ve not felt like an afternoon or evening person either.
The hours blur like ink in water.
Noon passes without ceremony,
twilight settles without applause.
I drift between clocks,
untethered from the language of time,
a guest in every part of the day.
A guest in my own life.
I’m not a morning person and I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I am.
Tired of being tired.
I just want to sleep through the morning, noon and night,
to silence the alarms and the questions,
to rest without earning it,
to disappear beneath blankets of quiet
where time does not demand anything from me
and I have to do nothing but
BREATHE.
Yves,
2026.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 5:18 PM UTC
I’m not a morning person,
yes, I enjoy eggs, bacon and golden toast,
the hiss of butter in a sizzling pan,
sunlight warming my skin through half open blinds
but even the promise of breakfast
cannot persuade my bones to not ache.
The alarm feels like an accusation
when it goes off
signaling a new dawn
that I am not prepared for.
I’m not a morning person,
yet I get up every morning and go through the same routines.
Exhausted, but I push anyway,
folding myself into schedules and expectations,
ticking boxes my hands know by memory.
Constantly stuck somewhere between obligation and survival,
Repeatedly asking myself if there is a point to all this?
I’m not a morning person,
but lately I’ve not felt like an afternoon or evening person either.
The hours blur like ink in water.
Noon passes without ceremony,
twilight settles without applause.
I drift between clocks,
untethered from the language of time,
a guest in every part of the day.
A guest in my own life.
I’m not a morning person and I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I am.
Tired of being tired.
I just want to sleep through the morning, noon and night,
to silence the alarms and the questions,
to rest without earning it,
to disappear beneath blankets of quiet
where time does not demand anything from me
and I have to do nothing but
BREATHE.
Yves,
2026.