When the Morning Comes

When the morning comes,

The sky dulls to gray,

And the cold makes me numb.

I'm dragged out of bed,

So rudely awakened,

And I stall a few minutes but time's too quickly taken.

When the morning comes,

The black fades to white.

Still just as empty, but not kind or right.

Reality beats me into submission;

It pushes me to labor,

But won't kill me as a small favour.

When the morning comes,

I'm thrown back to hell

And expected to try well,

Just to suffer again the next day.

No matter how tired or sore I may be,

There are no breaks, I don't have a say.

Why bother dreaming when I will soon wake?

When the morning comes,

I don't want to be here.

I'm going back to sleep.

Here, my brain in the form of an edgy poem. Now go away before I cry