Mornings at six,
The aches and the pains,
The cacophony of Radio 2,
Not a sound to be heard,
Not even a bird,
Repetition, a ruck, feeling blue.
Mornings at seven,
So tired and depressed,
As I trudge to the station again,
Not a soul you will meet,
As you stroll down the street,
Deep in slumber are luckier men.
Mornings at eight,
One becomes somewhat sprightly,
As I leap up from platform to train,
The carriage - not cramped,
Just me and a tramp,
Both solemn and lonely - the same.
Mornings at nine,
My eyes still half open,
Mood is still cold, unforgiving,
As we get to my stop,
From my seat I do hop,
And enter the land of the living!
If you enjoyed this poem, please consider giving it a like or dropping me a line in the comments section below. Many thanks, M.R.W
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The Assorted Drivel of a Student
PoetryA collection of poems written whilst studying, covering the highs and lows of education and growing up whether that be the stresses and strains put upon friendships; the growing experiences with love; the draining pressure put upon students or the g...
