I really, really hate Sundays.
Everyone is getting on better than I am.
I am told "be patient, be patient - you'll see;
Your time will come, you are young, they are all
Too soon and soon will have nothing but memory."
But all I hear is "you are lazy, lazy;
We hope someday that inspiration descends,
And clears the mist of your hazy lottery dreams",
Like luck could bring my listlessness to an end.
Some break hearts with painful perfection at twenty,
I am competing with those who started young.
They inspire, they beautify, enthrall and entice.
I absorb, vegetate; I am mindless and dumb.
I try to write but I am plagued by Sundays,
Idleness draining all of what's in my head.
And all I can think is "I am slipping away",
I am sixteen, I am forty, I am dead.
The waking world, it shakes and berates me
For not joining its endless struggle to assail
That endless sleep, but I am always dreaming,
Like no feeling could ever pierce my dull veil
Of plans half-remembered, half-regurgitated;
Of sluggish perception and rapid scene-setting,
Of blistering light and alarm-clock sirens,
Of places and people I just keep forgetting.
And all I can think is "I am slipping away:
I am dead, I am dead, I am dead, I am dead."