yesterday
the world was
silent
this morning
it refuses
to shut
the fuck up
something
out there
has the birds
in a tizzy
the sun
already
seems too high
and if i could
close the blinds
find a way
to catch
all the sleep
that ignored
my silent pleas
and wake up
in a land
less maddeningly
loud

i stared up
at the ceiling
that stared down
implacably
bargained
in mythology
tried to unknot
that ideas
in my skull
my sunnyside up
desperation
a yolk
running from
my ear
to the pillow
to be ignored
by the regulated
indifference
of cosmic angst

i never can
sleep
on my weekends
alone
the time i strive
to write
become a maze
of self sabotage
and zero output
except for
the poetry
the world has
clearly
had enough of