String Quartet

I wake up every morning
to see the contents of my maze
tossed about on the endless sea
of the four corners of the universe.
It makes me tired.
I watch as the dirty laundry floats
within the clusters of stardust and atoms
and realize there's nothing more
than a Sunday morning
in my head.
Escape is the only peril,
for the each raindrop pierces past the window pane
and we watch quietly,
counting each one with our fingers.
It burns like acid.
Everything is made of strings and stripes
and when you realize this,
you'll see like I do.
And it will make you tired.

*duuuude. haven't written a poem in forever, and i thought this up about twelve hours ago. sucks :( *