Glazed eyes.
Day-dreams of sleep.
I found this poem while cleaning out my desktop (because my computer decided it had had enough after 3 years and secretly entered into a competition with a fellow computer from the stone age to see which could be slower) that I wrote spontaneously while talking to a friend a couple of summers ago during finals week. (That, by the way, is an example of the worst kind of run-on sentence, in case you're a a literary freak - like me).
...
my bed is always made,
my pillow lies alone,
i walk past it daily,
and my comforter's woe-begone
caffeine has taken over my fridge,
and orange juice is a dream,
and it's a daily excercise,
to keep the whites of my eyes clean
my eyes are always wide shut,
and every day is such a drag,
people tell me i could go grocery shopping,
with my built-in eyebags.
One of my dogs decided to be stupid and went missing recently. It's terrible when people (or animals) disappear like that - and you don't know if they'll ever be back, or if they moved on to another universe/time/life. It's like a movie that conks out 15 minutes before the end. And all you're left with is hope, or despair, and absolutely no clue about what to believe in.
I hope she's safe wherever she is.
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