A Morning Person On Days That Aren't Today

they say that the hardest part of writing is not the act,

but sitting down to start. i can easily say,

.

it’s all too true.

the last thing i want to do

is sit here to write anything new.

.

my head is full of nothing but cloth and pillow fluff

and my body swims in apathy to do anything but lie still.

.

the last thing on my mind

is writing out a clever find

or an experience i’ve left behind.

.

trying to shake out the sleep and to think about anything but grumbles

and mumbles. i just can’t shake the thoughts

.

that i just want to sleep

lie down and keep

dreaming and seep

.

back down into the cozy, warm and fluffy land

so full of what some would call pure happiness.

.

but a lazy rage has taken hold

forcing me out into the cold

bitter and angry, so everything i scold

.

it’s too cold, i’m too tired, i slept too rough, i woke too early, i have to pee,

it’s too cold to wash my hands but i probably should.. and the water IS too cold!

.

oh the joys of early morning rage

at nothing, at everything, no matter my age

a beast running rampant that everyone wants to cage

.

but here and now i think i’ve shaken it off, i think i’m cooling down,

and the morning is actually quite nice, both inside my house and out.

.

watching the trees sway, is an image i’ll borrow

think about the weather tomorrow

and be thankful that in this morning, i’ve known no sorrow.

.