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Wednesday 19th December
The smell of my own filth
Fills my nostrils
I sit here
And wallow
Around
Thinking trying to think
Of a way to make it all feel better
Sometimes it works
Sometimes it makes me despair
That I
Feeling no happier
Will never be content
Thinking
Brings me down.
Ties me to mundane
And delivers me to boredom
Thinking
Makes my head burn and my pride shrivel
Thinking takes all day
All night
And 8 hour shifts
When nothing happens
I sit
And dream
Of someplace else
