The Morning Drones

This poem was originally published on 27 June 2016.

I don’t like the balcony.
I don’t like the garden.
I don’t like the walk,
To the bathroom in the morning.

My thighs are stiff,
And my mind is pretty flustered.
My heart’s a tad wonky,
And sits like unset custard.

I don’t like the blinds up.
I don’t like the cawing.
I don’t like the red,
On my mobile in the morning.

My eyes are misty,
And my throat’s a bit irritated.
My nose smells the news,
Before my thoughts are dilated.

I don’t like the spectacles.
I don’t like the tattle.
I don’t like the reporters,
With their licence to prattle.

My lungs have no air,
And my stomach is rather fed up.
My liver’s a little pissed,
And my intestines are wound up.

See, sunrise brings us papers,
Stabbed in black ink,
Screaming things,
That just makes the heart sink.
And sunset turns on screens,
Graphically brash,
With people spitting fire,
Tongues poised to lash.

See, the world is dividing,
Because it’s led by blind men,
Who can only see green,
While the other colours are alien.
And the youth are too young,
For them to really know,
But they will understand,
When they are old.

But by the time they have the power,
Their thoughts will be old,
And they won’t listen to the youth,
Because they’re too young to know.
See, it’s one step forward,
A shuffle to the side,
And a century back,
To fix things,
Long gone by.

I don’t like the future.
I don’t like the present.
Because it’s a gift wrapped up,
Of paper cuts tenfold unpleasant.

It aches my body,
And sickens my head,
That when we grow up,
We’re growing up –
Just to be dead.

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