Monday

The day is boring. I am folded.
Afraid I won't make it?
But I know I will.
Just no excitement. And it takes everything
To get used to it.

I'm passionate I'll master stillness;
The irony a thick pot
On my painted walls.
Tough to admit 
But there's only me to be ashamed of.

All day I'll think think and think that 
And it won't do any good.
All the same, the days passing in front of me.
Worse than bad TV.
I want to be seduced by madness.

Want the yoghurt to be rich cream 
And books to sustain me.
I'm nervous something tracks me,
An old enemy 
Who thinks they know me better than I know myself.

I think they tell tall tales 
To anybody willing to listen.
I think too highly of myself?
If it's true I need to be taken down a peg
Then there's obsession in discovering 

I don't take to kindness so well.
Then again I'm overly negative 
And my imagination is killing.