Each and every accursed morning
You give me the word of day, as if
I would know what to do with it,
Supposedly expect some release
From this recurring revelation of
Grandiosity
Each and every blasted morning
You whack me, urge me to transition
From sleep to delusions of grandeur,
Poking and prodding my vernacular
mind as you observe the flaws in my
Linguistical appropriations
Each and every cursed morning
I run towards the empty page
Only to find no tools to tell with
So the search for a suitable marker
Commences, the hunger
Growing inside
Each and every damned morning
The quest for pens, pencils or a
Goose neck to wring for a single
Quill ends with empty hands and
Unmanicured nails, ready to scar
The arms of innocence
Each and every execrable morning
The realisation of inadequacy
Presents itself as thus, the
Desireless days of the present
Overshadowing the glory days
Long passed
