Saturday

Saturday is when it all seems to cave in
When the heat of pain explodes
Like acid washes over my face
I can taste the semblance
Temperance out of place
Everyone is dead
Merry or gay
I’ve just got this anxious taste of iron
and my tenant of sorry solitude
Excuses to make my bed;
Excuses to wake up and get out of bed.
I’ve got no use in staving off death.
I could accidentally starve myself to death
I can’t wait for my last breath.
And Sunday?
that’s a different day.
But it’s pretty much all the same.
I need something to do, or else.
Whether paid or as a debt
I’m so bored
I only live in jest.
I’m like a pest
I must crave this big mess.