Category: Poetry

Fatigue, it plagues me

from darkness, source unknown

my eyes have seen the darkness now

no-one cares if you sigh your last
no-one says goodbye

now is when you die.

The silence constricts me like a phantom anaconda in the night, my pillow is a mushroom that spreads spores of great imagination into my brain. Woe is my mattress as my body dents it, my sheets envy my drapes, stained as they are with my nosemucous, for they’re not yellow. Lovingly the sun blinds me awake, birds fighting over control of my migraine. I stumble for my coffee, lifeblood of insomniacs worldwide, but find flour instead. My tea is littered with fallen leaves, once blocked by the window I threw my irish flour through. I love to hate my weekdays, for unshaven and half-dressed I get into my broken down car and weep the silent tears of job-slavery.

- Copyright (C)2009 Maki Jaderborg