That sick feeling you get when you realize that the weekend flew away and you have another LONG week ahead of you. :/
A short poem now, written last Thursday.

Breath in the darkness of morning light,
Where your heart, I'm sure, is a pretty sight.
Where the moon, I see, is blown away,
By the cruel realism of a another day.
Where the dreams of those around you seem,
Agentle harmony, a light-hearted stream,
Where the ceiling fan is a deadly muse,
And with this breathing seems to fuse.
Here is the place where you have no mask,
Where dreams of the future burn, through means of the past.

And to think, none of this would mean a thing,
If only you'd found the will to scream.

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