I wish the morning air
would kiss me gently awake
instead of breaking both my legs
with a metal folding chair.
Somewhere in the world, there's
a lucky son of the sun
privileged to know the careful touch
of the dawn's more sensitive side,
and I'm expected to take a daily
WWE choke-slam in dignified,
unwavering stride.
Right in the pride!
And I'm petrified,
honestly,
literally
stoned
to death, in effect.
Unreflective, I'm prone
to absorbing the radiant light of the day
and turning it to nothing,
'cause I get the stuffing
beaten out of me in my sleep
as well.
Hell is one exhausting bad dream
from which one slowly rises
and even more slowly realizes
that waking life is more of the same.
Even if I'd love to love it,
the morning grog
keeps me from thinking of it,
brain fog eternally bars the way
to the joyful life that I covet.
That guy,
after he's had his cold shower
and caffeine,
and maybe a workout too?
I swear, I've never seen
his hind nor tail in all my life.
He's as separate from me
as I've become from you.
And yet, somehow,
he shares my skin.
He shares my love,
he shares my sin.
He shares my pain
and he shares each moment of bliss.
He shares my loss, he shares my gain,
hell, he's the productive one who's writing this.
But at the height of the morning,
at the depths of my mourning,
the off-center chemical cocktail
of my brain
cannot reconcile,
cannot imagine its own face
ever wearing a smile.
About the Creator
Jacob Sherman
The desire to read, and perhaps to write, should be cultivated and nurtured with care throughout every stage of life. For my part I will inject what strangeness and truth that I can into our written history. Expect no constants but honesty.
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