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’.