My Juliet - 5 : 5

Weak and filthy, Poet moans on waking,

Wincing 'gainst the pain inside his head;

Waiting for the world to finish shaking,

He's still alive, but wishes he were dead.

His bedroom is a vomit-soaked nightmare.

Poet hasn't showered in o'er a week,

Having done nothing and gone nowhere,

At least 4 days of beard upon his cheek.

An irony, or cruelest twist of fate;

He even failed to end it properly.

A scream to no one, full of pain and hate,

"What good can come from life in misery?"

Poet sobs there, wretched and unstable,

And still ignores the box upon the table.

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.