Bloodshot from too little sleep,
I glare with intent into a cup of black coffee.
A shimmering pool of obsidian,
Strong, deep and steaming,
Aroma bitter, bordering on unpleasant.
A look in the mirror bares a distasteful reality,
I look old, I feel old,
Much older than my years.
Bags under the eyes black and purple,
Fifteen rounds of life,
Beating the senses until they are bruised.
Tired beyond belief,
I should not be,
Is not an hour of uninterrupted sleep enough?
Medication seems my only respite,
No dreams, at least none bound to my weary memory,
Just sleep, black, uneventful sleep.
Tomorrow I will wake,
Groggy from the self-induced coma,
A useless splash of cold water to prod arousal.
Another cup of bad coffee,
Strong, black and bitter,
Maybe today I should just stay in bed.
~~ D. R. DiFrancesco ~~