I would hate to oil those hinges of my oak wood door
The creaking has become a routine to my chores
When I water my garden hedges, and dandelions
I remember that I must oil the hinges, but forget
Now it has become a routine, the forgetfulness too
Each night before I sleep, I deem to do it tomorrow
Like a host of other lapses, and slip ups that happen
I spend my day, waiting for betterment to arrive
Whereupon I would alter the perception of myself
Only to forget that too in chasing my harrowing past
To rinse and repeat, and promise myself again
Such are the days that I have spent, almost illicit
I know these are my false virtues, malformed habits
Of fraudulent musings, and weak-willed reaching outs
I shall begin another day, pseudo proud
Feel ashamed of failings, feel better next dawn
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