I don't know why I get up in the morning.
I have no reason to keep on churning.
The emptiness is constantly burning.
There's a resemblance to being stuck in mourning.

Is this called reality?
The empowering cruelty.
Are my eyes wide open?
I don't want to go back to coping.
Drifting in and out.
Why can't I just stay passed out.

It's hard to stay awake.
I toss, roll, and shake.
My will to move is removed.
I don't know what it is I proved.

A disgruntled start to the morning.
My head just keeps on churning.
My thoughts just keep on burning.
There's a resemblance to being stuck in mourning.

They tell me I spell stoic.
I tell them it's because I'm a poet.
You write while at your lowest.
The feeling you just go with.

Dragging your body across the earth.
Each step written in the dirt.
Tells a story on chronicles of the hurt.
The passerbyers interpret it's worth.

The secrets inside are leaking.
I left a trail hinting my location.
Waiting for someone to come seeking.
So far, nobody has found my creations.

I reluctantly get through the morning.
There's an obligation to keep on churning.
My actions are furiously burning.
There's a resemblance to being stuck in mourning.

© Dawn of Spitfire