Before I begin, I should clarify the “missed day thing” – not just because I want to be a “good girl” and not loose any points .. but seriously back away from the points.

Anyway for as long as I remember I’ve worked on a biological farmers clock. Maybe it has something to do with my ethnical and historical background, but I genuinely believe the day doesn’t start afresh until the dawn has cracked. With that and no further adieu we shall begin:

Poetry

Is this the new soul of me?
Or some crass dream?
Naively entered and lived for selfish purposed?
Like terming crash-course dieting as a “lifestyle change”,
to encourage societal love and normalising,
Belonging to the cult of productivity?
Never a space to just be,
To weep, to curse, to question,
To just feel worse.
Already I stop,
Angered and annoyed at this self that have no purpose.
Silly, strange idioms bash against this skull,
like: “The Show must Go On”
Never word actioned or practiced
By one as inactive as I.