Dave had a good day. Better than he usually had. He was ecstatic. So happy, in fact, he decided to celebrate.
He laid down in his bed and stared at the ceiling. "How perfect," he thought.
Nothing in his space could ruin this feeling for him. Seconds later, he fell asleep.
Three hours later, he woke up. He checked the time. "9 p.m." he read.
He stared at the ceiling again. "9 p.m." he repeated. His eyes began to well up.
"9 p.m!" He cried.
He turned onto his side and pulled part of the pillow he was sleeping on to cover his face. Some of his tears of frustration managed to roll down his face.
"Every time," he whispered, "Every damn time!"
He felt like he wasted his day.
He felt like he didn't deserve to have rested.
He knew he did this to himself.
He always knew it was his fault.
He got up and got to work.
YOU ARE READING
Late Night Literature
PoetryShort stories(or poems sometimes, if you can consider them that) I think of/write late at night or something. Just a small collection of thoughts, I guess.
