The day has spun into a crazy cycle,
My routine — a mess, my mind — a spiral.
I just need something I don’t break in an hour,
I don’t speak — I’m horribly, painfully sour.
My walls collapse, my roof tilts wrong,
My home is lost — I’ve been gone so long.
I believe in UFOs and other nonsense,
I wouldn’t leave, if you still had some presence.
I’m not dead — no body, no feet, just pain,
Our problems sit, delayed in the rain.
My tombstone? Sure — covered in nails.
The story of me — full of fails.
Spiral
© Copyright: Коновалов Павел Дмитриевич, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125080700608
Свидетельство о публикации №125080700608
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