That point in the night
when you want to say something
right but you’re too tired.
—
A haiku’s too hard
when your brain’s got no more cards
to play but madness.
—
A frigid, simple
rhyme will take no more time than
deadened syllables.
Unfinished
I am grown weary of these boys who break us,
of burnt fingers from hot coffee
and not quite enough substance to the cup.
I am grown tired of these days that crack us,
of bones knocked brittle
by the wear and tear of an all-too-ordinary misery.
I am grown numb from this buzzing in the background
of all the past little onslaughts
that have left us printed with the ink of yesterday’s news.
Unmeds
My mind is blurry
and my soul is cold.
My eyes are bleary
and the trying’s old
to grasp at the sediment
of weathered, beat hope
chipped and chiseled
by the unending slope.
There’s not enough coffee
and it’s all gone stale.
The dawn’s too early
and I’m still pale.
The pills have stopped working
so I can’t take any more,
but I think there’s still light coming
through the crack under the door.
Maybe it’ll open,
and then I’ll feel the floor.
A Ditty for the Last of the Week Days
There was not enough coffee for my coffee cup.
There was not enough coffee to fill the cup up.
I overestimated what was left
in that most beautiful French press carafe
and now my caffeination is dangerously low
and my motivation center is synapsing quite slow
so you all got a half-crazed dump of a ditty
which I hope you’ve laughed at, even if it’s not witty.
Oh god, why isn’t it the weekend yet?
Note: Why the hell do I think of the weekend as “relief?” I usually have to get up several hours earlier…
