To feel the sun,
the warmth of another day.
The birds talk of wild times in the sky
while I sit here typing away.
They never said my days would be long,
nor my paper trail much longer.
I open the window expecting the birds to stay,
yet they get scared and fly away.
An unused coffee cup,
milk in the fridge, yet the kettle is too far away.
I sit working away;
working, and working, and working the day away.
Results mean little,
as the dollar signs are all they care about here.
Tired of the stress;
too many tasks leave my body tired and frazzled.
Friday night blues,
as thoughts of catastrophic failures, haunt me.
Slumped over the desk,
creeping fatigue lingers,
and haunts poetry days.
Sheets of coffee-stained paper sit near the mouse, yet that’s too far from the bin.
The keyboard is having a hard time accepting these old fingers don’t work the way they used to, yet the words continue to form on the screen.
The Witch wishes for her Familiar to be closer, so they can find a spell for the shit way this day is going.
Your sadness drips onto the floor, to pool in shadows and soak into the fabric of the building.
Once there, it sits unable to dissipate until others’ happiness does the same.
How odd that you reside in a building unable to balance emotions.