Days Like These
It is days like these.
Nights like these.
Where they are seamlessly stitched together
to an extent of unawareness
of the dimension that is time.
An abundance of minutes, hours too countless
to a point of spoiling.
It is rotten days like these
I dread the most.
Inducing of self-loathing
and muscle pulling agony.
For in them I am unable to carry myself properly,
in them I am unable to feed, to breathe or walk unlike a broken log.
It is days like these I choose to sleep early in.
For sleep is a form of death too. Even if temporary.