Sloth

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.