her eyes were like the sun and the moon,
glowed like a sun ray strings in the mid July,
shimmered like a moonlight in the midnight.

she was like a perfect sun in cloudless sky,
she was like a raw moon in starless sky.

all of her was independent universe.

thoughts all are jumbled
mind is a shredded mess
no comfort can be found in my bed
no inspiration lurks outside my window
clothes are strewn about, their disheveled appearance only adds to it all.
smudges on the mirror, clutter on the vanity
jammed drawers and a lock that won't work.
missing shoes
mismatched socks
all these things cause my writers block.
a growl from my stomach
a snarl in my hair
a sharp end of my nail, I shouldn't bite them so much.
rain starts to fall
the room gets dark
the temperature drops
all these things cause my writers block.

I wander through my house,
aimless steps,
looking at all that I've accumulated
and hating it, every bit.
So much needs to be accomplished,
but it all feels so purposeless.
Wash, sweep, launder, wipe,
what for?
All of this ****,
meaningless to me
and I'm honestly sick of cleaning it.
The same motions over and over,
a metaphor for my life.
I walk room to room,
eyes glancing upon chores undone
yet another day,
but I don't feel like doing them
today either.
I don't want to do any of it,
want nothing to do with
any of this crap.
I meander back to the bedroom,
lie down in bed yet again,
where I never seem to leave
on my days off.
Festering,
this I can do.