The beauty of the morning

I hate how my eyes feel like the ocean
is surgin around them
pulling them down, down,
until I cannot live, cannot breath, and only sleep
I hate how my shoulders hunch over
earing the wieght of
every sad face I see, every hungry child, every dying flower
and I can't even bear
the weight of my own world.
I hate how mu hands
are scraped and bruised and molested
fromt he wears of every day
how I cannot hold them out
fore, you might see all of my
imperfection.

I hate how my breath hitches with every
bounding step
a uneasy cadence to disrupt the band
every time I run
and pad around throguh
the neigborhoods.
I hate how I stand tall
even though my eyes can no longer bear it
and my shoulders can't even lift
and my breath is no longer coming in easy rythm
but most of all
I hate the way I stare at you
the way it doesn't matter what I'm saying at the time
who I'm with at the time or where I might be
I cannot help
but lock my eyes on your face
and think about all the times
I've run my fingers accross those plains,
how much I loved the feeling of your neck against my lips and your skin
beneath my hands.
I can't help but listen when you talk and rmemeber
how you would have told me
that same thing
only a month ago
and now I wont even know
until I heart it
through the godforsaken grapevine
underwhich we all live.
And I hate how though you barely think of me
Your still
the last thing I think about before I go to sleep
and the first thing I think about
in the beauty of the morning...