A lone bird sang
and that was my cue
to put out my cigarette
and go inside.
Six-thirty a.m. and all
i've got instead of sleep
is a mug of tea.
"Twinnings Irish Breakfast;
Enjoy the experience"
says the label
on the tea bag,
and now I feel
as though I should be gazing
at some green, rolling hills
in a mist
instead of the glow
of this omni-present screen
and the half-written drivel
of my god-awful essay.
My head feels like
a can of sardines
crammed full of articles,
chapters, pages and pages
I haven't looked at
since October.
What sadistic little imp
inside my head
has me writing poetry
in the wee hours
when I could be asleep
had I done my work hours ago?
I can laugh at the irony
but it's really not funny.
I guess I like to torture myself.
Why is the clock moving faster?
And how long 'til
I should get in the shower?
And how butch will I look
if I don't leave time
to put on makeup
and otherwise girl-ify
myself before going to work?
And what bisexual
punk-hippie-goth-freak
ex-junkie
works at an overpriced,
upscale, conservative
women's clothing store anyway?
I really must like to torture myself.
Author notes
just a blurb, really...picture me smacking myself in the forehead with the heel of my palm and rolling my eyes.
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