Mornings

The cold snapped at my warm skin

Yelling at me that if I shouldn't get up

There would be consequences.

I held the warm, soft blankets to my body

As the outside world seemed so unpleasant

My dreams were so much more pleasant

More vivid, and more in control.

Yet the brutal force of the cold made it's way

Into my warm shelter of a bed

Then it beckoned me to get up and

Go seize the day.

I considered it an attack to my dreams and my warmth

These attacks are called Mornings of course.

This poem is about: 
Me

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