One With My Couch

Opening my door having to push hard past the rug
and squeeze through because my cats have
barricaded themselves in again,

I look around
at the mess,
I look in the mirror
at the mess
and decide its nap time these things can be handled later.
sleeping way longer than expected, it's new damn day
and all those messes still exist,
I imagine taking a shower, it seems like a ton of work
all that lathering and soaping
and then there's those freaking dishes
I feel like Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout,
but even she scrubbed the pans, I just don't want to do anything,
I'm chained to my couch having a non violent protest with life
a sit in if you will,

my area consists of empty beverages, candy wrappers
a few twenties an empty pack of Zigzags, my smokes
a pen and a journal, which I don't even feel like writing in,
everything is within reach, no need to move
just lean, from right to left.
You know something is wrong when your thirsty for three hours
but the kitchen is just to far for one to travel.

There's a whole bunch more, but I just don't feel like saying it,
in other words I'm just to fucking lazy.









*FYI
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout,
is a character from one of Shell Silverstein's poems
titled:
SARAH CYNTHIA SYLVIA STOUT WOULD NOT TAKE THE GARBAGE OUT