Poetry

Perhaps I Should Go Back To Bed The organic bread is mouldy, again, and my teabag has burst, in my cup. I sniff, weakly cough, slip and drop my last egg. Perhaps I should go back to bed. So I gaze at the greyness outside, weary eyes blink, I swallow some leaves. It is only just eight, but I want to be dead. Perhaps I should go back to bed. I sit down, take a glance at the list of the work I had planned for the day. Put it back, lacking will, and I cough twice instead. Perhaps I should go back to bed. I stand up, with recalcitrant sniff as I think of the days I have left. I decide to endure, and ignoring the bed, put my tea down and start work instead.