Mourning Person

I wish the morning air

would kiss me gently awake

instead of breaking both my legs

with a metal folding chair.

Somewhere in the world, there's

a lucky son of the sun

privileged to know the careful touch

of the dawn's more sensitive side,

and I'm expected to take a daily

WWE choke-slam in dignified,

unwavering stride.

Right in the pride!

And I'm petrified,

honestly,

literally

stoned

to death, in effect.

Unreflective, I'm prone

to absorbing the radiant light of the day

and turning it to nothing,

'cause I get the stuffing

beaten out of me in my sleep

as well.

Hell is one exhausting bad dream

from which one slowly rises

and even more slowly realizes

that waking life is more of the same.

Even if I'd love to love it,

the morning grog

keeps me from thinking of it,

brain fog eternally bars the way

to the joyful life that I covet.

That guy,

after he's had his cold shower

and caffeine,

and maybe a workout too?

I swear, I've never seen

his hind nor tail in all my life.

He's as separate from me

as I've become from you.

And yet, somehow,

he shares my skin.

He shares my love,

he shares my sin.

He shares my pain

and he shares each moment of bliss.

He shares my loss, he shares my gain,

hell, he's the productive one who's writing this.

But at the height of the morning,

at the depths of my mourning,

the off-center chemical cocktail

of my brain

cannot reconcile,

cannot imagine its own face

ever wearing a smile.