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Rated: E · Poetry · Comedy · #1656721
I Don't Do Mornings....Well not gracefully.
KA-POW!

The A-bomb to dreams falls hard,
on my head and into my thoughts,
knocking the sense out of brain fiction.
Leftover dreams twist into daymares,
where truth blends with cerebral visions.

Another success for the sun!

Like a tired kitten into flannels,
with no knowledge of boundaries,
it insists on burrowing still deeper.
The claw-like rays breast stroking,
in the twin ponds of weariness.

Hiding under twisted quilts is futile.
Rays come not just from windows,
but off the walls, my own skin,
and even from inside my mattress.
I exhale an "Awww man!", like a kid.

"I'm up!"

Though all head with no body,
I will my brain to find my appendages.
Tingling feet and arms resist,
as I pull myself to attention.
Hello again, you solar punk.

You beam in satisfaction as if saying,
"Take that! Who's your daddy?"

I'll drink to your victory,
after I spill my own yellow rays.
We will become friends again,
when you are back in the sky,
and I sip my second Cup of Joe.

by Kimarie Manhart-Freeman


author's notes:
Isaiah 40:31- But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary;
and they shall walk, and not faint.
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