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Misery Routine
Waking up is pretty dreadful
as is the entire day of pacing
around the dead white ghosts,
unsure of how to busy myself,
home alone with a cellphone.
The routine is always the same:
clothe myself, make my bed,
splash my face with cold water,
chug a bottle of water, then
take my pills, brew some coffee,
smoke a cigarette, and brood
through and through my moods.
Also, if I'm lucky, a little poem
comes to spark my lame brain.
We wake up to hungry seraphim
but know that the rest of the day
is spent in sequenced fasting
and painting a painful prayer of
meek meditation on every wall.
The mundane meanders mad.
You have verbally
You have verbally demonstrated the spiritual aspect of bleakness. The power of the words that you have combined to create this poem brings forth the bleakness as more than just a metaphysical abstraction, as a reality that too many people have to bear. While I am sorry that you have had to experience this, I applaud your poetic ability to convert it into a very moving poem, and I admire your courage in doing so.
Starward
You never fail a lush language
I applaud your introspective mastery.
Though I am beginning to fear it is mere flattery.
Why should I deserve such perpetual praises?
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes