I wake up every morning,
And I get up just because.
Each time, I am something less
Than something that I was.

My fingers’, cut and bleeding
From picking off the floor,
Tiny broken splinters
Of what I was before.

Days of endless madness
Hardly knowing what I do.
Sudden chills of horror
When I realize what is true.

My mind is like the construct
The poet Yeats foretold:
‘Things fall apart;
the centre cannot hold’.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.