Blue Basket

No one twisted either wrist

Scribbling in a composition book about swinging for an important day but ending innings with a miss

Dragging tired toes on tired feet

Underneath a warm blanket unable to sleep morning hours well armed into view silent creep

And tell me what is the point of these days and sharpened pencils


I’m feeling dull

Lukewarm temperatures throughout the week

And it’s all my fault

False escapes keep winking steady calling me

Screaming mediocre


And no one is twisting my wrists it’s all my fault.

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