Mornings bring either desolate lonelinessĀ
or unabashing confidence,
desperately waiting to be quelled or quenched.
Mirrors causing confusion
in the face of boyish looks staring back.
He sure is an overconfident zealot.
Strange facts often leave him tucked between the sheets,
barely pulling covers back
peeking out between rays of light and overgrown strands of hair;
a canine lust dripping from the air.
Once again just hoping for the best.
Just hoping.
Like a wolf, rising to greet hardwood floors
simultaneously sucking down coffee and nicotiine.
A realization that mornings always were a way to howl at the world.
Joining the insane and encumbered for another struggle.
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_Morrison