Wake up to a pulsing morning.
Sooner than you know,
circles back to ******* Monday.
Empty batteries.
Empty call log.
Empty stomach,
and ash-mouthed, empty-hearted anger
leaves its streaks on the walls
of the insides of the skull--
it's a kitchen, that mind you got:
it's covered and crusted--well used I suppose--
but smells funny, needs dusted
and swept
and mopped
and wiped down
and shined up. Dress down
the absentees in your life--I'm sure you know how--
'til it circles back 'round--
to breakfast,
to Monday,
to you.
In your bed.
Fight the throb in your head and push back
on the sheets that still rush up to claim you--
slack jawed with maimed thoughts--though it's
late in the day.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Wake up to a pulsing morning.
Sooner than you know,
circles back to ******* Monday.
Empty batteries.
Empty call log.
Empty stomach,
and ash-mouthed, empty-hearted anger
leaves its streaks on the walls
of the insides of the skull--
it's a kitchen, that mind you got:
it's covered and crusted--well used I suppose--
but smells funny, needs dusted
and swept
and mopped
and wiped down
and shined up. Dress down
the absentees in your life--I'm sure you know how--
'til it circles back 'round--
to breakfast,
to Monday,
to you.
In your bed.
Fight the throb in your head and push back
on the sheets that still rush up to claim you--
slack jawed with maimed thoughts--though it's
late in the day.
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