The proverbial rooster shouts
from somewhere in the misty morning
abyss, a harsh melody
that splits my mind: a good morning migraine.
Like a child’s abused marionette
I wrench myself into the chill,
split strings drag me onto
colder linoleum with a smell
of coco on the air.
I seer my lips with caffeinated anxiety
(making a mental note to quit
when I get the time to
My routine poisoned mind
directs me down again
onto a torture device,
padded with imitation leather.
Another sip of fire
and my eyes forget to burn.
A pencil sneaks into my fingers
as papers begin to pile so early.
Owls, the feathered nocturnal mystics,
may have talons on my heart
but I am a morning girl.