i'd rather have not woken up
than wake up 30 minutes too late
to a chorus of inculpation
that i am no different
from a sloth.
nothing was moving
and yet my body still responded
like everything moved
a bit too fast,
a bit too much.
my skin wants to hide,
my eyes want to cry,
my tongue wants to taste
what it would be to die
at 10:30 am.
i feel quite vexed
toward flowers
for they were born
beautiful and adored; loved;
they were worth waiting for to grow. (can't i be too?)
i feel envious
of the clouds,
for no one would be indigant
when it decides to change;
everyone would just say to themselves:
"it's natural,
it's what clouds
do."
and yet when i change,
and yet when my tears change color,
and yet when i am not feeling good about today,
i am being 'irrational.'
it's quite ironic
how it's named "sunday"
when today i feel
that i have no sun.
YOU ARE READING
dust untouched
Poetrydust untouched from the clutter in an abyss we call "minds" in various styles // trigger warning. please do be careful. highest rank: #38
