There are crumbs on the glass table by the couch and more of them all over the floor.
It’s driving me mad as I try to type, I ought to be doing the chores.
My mind is as messy as the clothes in my room that the sunshine is begging to dry
The shit on the bowl of the toilet upstairs is a nice little meal for a fly
The dust on the blinds is almost alive its been with me through all four seasons
Though lockdown is long I am struggling to find the energy for cleaning reasons
I always have, so much to do, like sitting and planning my day.
Like a general, I plot my assault with a cloth until the time slips away
What’s within is without the shrinks tell us so I’d hate what to see is within
My toenails are mouldy, my lungs full of phlegm, I wonder what’s under the skin?
The good people are shining the laminate cleansed, the dust all wiped from the shelves
I should have got married when I had the chance, I really can’t live by myself.
Ends
No comments:
Post a Comment