ManicWorld Magazine

I fold my body in bed
blanketing my woes in the warm sheets
and the birds on my window
have been trying to notify me loudly
that the sun has risen. Time to face
the terrors of a searing day.
I should be dead. I should not have
been born. My years are a reel of
horrors, and the birds keep singing.
Hymns to the body lying in bed
the clock tocks away in shame, an
alarm less adhered to, but set
in throngs of ebullient hopes.
I wake up and stare at the birds
in fury, then open my window
to chase them away. I do not
want them there. I do not want
another day to toil endlessly.
I want the peace inside my blankets
and I jump back into my sheets.
It will be a shifty day!