born to hustle broken pencils
down avenues of empty color
sometimes there’s a bump of
creativity
on the back of my brain
as science meets religion
and religion
becomes art

but not today
today all we have are
stray thoughts
under grey skies
anarchic keys
drowned blissfully
by day old coffee
as my tiny cat
sits in a tall window
crying her tiny meows
to a disobedient sun

slouched in a stained shirt
damp minds
refuse to kiss
damp souls
perhaps it’s monday’s curse
to sit here once again
discarded by circumstance
tired and waiting
for another absent ending