I wish
I could put my finger on it
This illness.
Is it Winter, seasonally affective?
Pathetic fallacy turning us defective?
Nights out seep alkaline from our heads
And employment is just a marriage of convenience,
The meaning we sandwich
Between the Monday blues and Friday’s fires.
The rest of the time we sit in bed,
Geometric patterned curtains protect us
From the pestilence of post-pubescence.
We, children who never grew up
A Neverland nightmare of false starts and fuck ups.
We wither and I wonder,
When it might get better.
I could put my finger on it
This illness.
Is it Winter, seasonally affective?
Pathetic fallacy turning us defective?
Nights out seep alkaline from our heads
And employment is just a marriage of convenience,
The meaning we sandwich
Between the Monday blues and Friday’s fires.
The rest of the time we sit in bed,
Geometric patterned curtains protect us
From the pestilence of post-pubescence.
We, children who never grew up
A Neverland nightmare of false starts and fuck ups.
We wither and I wonder,
When it might get better.