Chris Butler

Morning Wood
At sunrise I find I have already risen
after swimming in a sea of wet dreams,
to see that my appendages are stiff
and damp drops of dew have formed indoors.

I come to notice that I’m affixed to my sheets,
as all the blood floods towards my head
and tangled hairs dangle like icicles from my follicles,
while peeling off caked layers from my encrusted eye.

Every day I erect my cotton tent,
which is the perfect place to hide in.


Previously published in Poems of Pain Volume 2: Emo (C) from Scars Publications.

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