Every week a knife stabs into my psyche
Like an ice sickle to the brainstem
Cold, hard, rudely awakening,
Blaring warnings like a siren,
And I reach with arms stiff like branches,
Heavy with the weight unfinished dreams,
I push, shove,
Books and empty cups and pens and paper fall from my nightstand
and finally, I manage to tap
Maybe I can make nine minutes last a millennium,
Maybe I can slip back into the woriless comfort of REM
Because I am not ready for Monday.



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