A Good Day in a Bad Time

A day in the life of...

A once full room, now almost empty

lights up with unhindered sun beams

through the cracked window.

He awakens in frustration, his face pelted

by photons, photons, photons. Painful

to adjust sleepy eyes to such bombardment.

Irritation to follow, billions of bugs

breeding, brooding, bloodsucking bed bugs

crawling over his face and neck.

Brush it off, friend, you're in no position

to help yourself out this month,

let alone the last four. Brush them off.

He gets up from his bed, the floor,

and folds the invisible blanket.

He carries it to the closet, and forgets.

What to wear, what to wear?

Wrinkled and stained, or odorous go-to?

Just eight more sleeps until wash day,

just eight more... Wrinkled and stained,

and off to the shower. Soap slivers today?

Nope. Just raw shards of ice.

Gets the heart pumping, activates the mind,

his mind says with force "feed, feed me, you beast"

Drip dry and hunt, what prey today?

Mustard or tuna or thrice moldy bread?

Skip the thought, to work instead.

On with the shirt, pants, shoes with the holes

step after step, minutes to hours,

soaked feet the whole way. Arrival!

To work, he slaves, tethered to anxiety.

Destruction of mind, more, more to be done.

As fast as he can, as hard as a stone,

room for error? He laughs, agony.

... and in she walks, shapely and tall.

His best friend, his love, her nothing at all.

Unconventionally right, and so deeply wrong,

his troubles all gone, the lights came on.

His heart smiles with every word spoken,

cherish the thoughts and keep your heart broken.

She has no interest in the good of a man,

what a shame for him to be man of such good.

For hours a day he loves anyway, then time

to go home.

Step after step, minutes to hours,

accomplished so much, and made but a dollar.

Soaked feet the whole way, arrival...

He unlocks his door, oops, not locked at all.

What food for the day? That tuna fish can, perhaps

he'll get fancy and garnish it with mustard.

The sun finally goes down and he can head to rest.

Invisible blanket in hand, he lays down on his bed,

the floor, and says good night to his blood sucking

friends.

Author's Note

I'm not sure what I was trying to do here. Some type of short story/poem Frankenstein. Non-fiction. Constructive criticism is welcome, help me figure out what the hell this is supposed to be! :)

Reviews

[Dorothy]

I would personally put it in book form...paragraphs and not in a poetic style...unless you want it to be a poem.

[gorillarock]

Well this is essentially raw material in this state, much like a slab of marble waiting to be carved. I think you are right, originally I was attempting to write in short story form but I was not inspired to write in that style. This is probably why this feels like a monster... meant to be a story but forced into a poem. I think it will be easier to revise into a story with the crude ideas and emotions already down!

I'll be sure to send you a read request or something once i have found the inspiration to reconstruct this! I appreciate your help :)

[Dorothy]

It is certainly up to you. I've seen some poetic stories :)