No time to think, or catch forty winks.
Always talking, but conversation are few.
Busy, busy… but no further forward.
Lonely, but rarely alone.
How long to lose me? Two years almost…
Torn between the comfort of home, and what was.
Tomorrow. I’ll start tomorrow.
Or Monday. It’ll be different then.
Routine is what I need.
But my bones hurt. Everything hurts.
Bed. Desk. Cooker. Couch.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Alarm is set. I’ll start in the morning.
Find solace in what it is and be content?
Strive for what was and always be wanting?
Have we all changed? Is it just me?
What will be, will be…