Mornings, the ones in which we wake up to the pizza crumbs on the floor and the soda bottles all empty.
Filled with furniture, the house’s all empty.
The heavy headedness and puffy eyes,
Barren thoughts and chained willingness.
Paralyzed with promises and hopeless with the destiny.
The writer up and above the skies, owning the universe, has planned something mysteriously.
For now it’s all about living helplessly.
(Topic suggested by @apache1773 )