Waking is such sweet joy, my friend,

Crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows

The body warm and snug.

A gentle lift-off with a push 

A right-hand palm, the door to a well-known pit,

into the landscape of a fragile core. 

Nostalgia for the sweet touch of night

Gone the face of slumbered satisfaction. 

Welcome back marauded morn 

Enough, enough

Oh bloody hell, Myalgia, 

It’s way past time 

(To grease the palm) for physiotherapy.

‘Tis no wonder Sluggish is my middle name. 

_________________________________________________________

I submitted this new poem to ChatGPT with this instruction: "Write a short humorous excerpt for this poem".  This is what the AI produced :

As the sluggish dawn breaks, I emerge from my cocoon of crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows, like a majestic butterfly... if that butterfly had hit the snooze button a dozen times and stumbled out of bed with all the grace of a newborn foal.


With a reluctant push, I navigate through the familiar landscape of my bedroom, a perilous journey that leads me to the treacherous abyss known as morning. Ah, nostalgia for the sweet embrace of sleep! But alas, it's time to face the day, with all its marauding responsibilities and unwelcome intrusions.


And then, just as I summon the courage to confront the day ahead, a familiar foe makes its presence known: Myalgia, the villainous master of aches and pains. It's a reminder that perhaps I've lingered in bed a tad too long, and now it's time to pay the piper... or rather, the physiotherapist.


So, with a resigned sigh and a muttered curse, I shuffle towards the inevitable appointment, realizing that "Sluggish" isn't just a word in the poem—it's become my middle name, my identity, my eternal struggle against the tyranny of mornings."

Image by Aitestkitchen.