Mornings

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The warmth of my blankets is the apple of Eve's garden.
It's temptation overcomes me each morning
As my alarm blares in my ear.
Mornings are not a fun time.

My mattress is a sponge-
It contorts to my body with each movement.
I feel it soaking in my remaining warmth.
My arms tingle with the chilly air of winter.

I pull back my blankets further,
Fresh air hitting my body like a wave.
My eyelids are heavy;
I'm not ready for another long day.

Mornings are sand paper,
Rough in every aspect of the word
I want to sleep.
I long to dream.

Yet, the sun is up,
And my day has begun.
Just remember, I think,
Only 95 days left of school.





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