He rolls over, around, his fluffy bed
Rather waking up, he dozes up instead
No intention for being tidy, he rises
Walking through the mountain of laundry and dishes
A gallant finger turned on the switches
With his careless eyes to the screen he glances
Books and papers is meant to be unfinished
The few things with he will never be astonished
Beholding the others, he recollect his grief
Turning into tantrum, each is very brief
Far and becoming a stranger to such a stable
His thoughts are nothing but trouble
The man is gone, as I finish my blink
And I take my time, simply to think
Nothing seems to right, but merely an error
As my own self appear on the face of a mirror
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