Habit (in progress, as it happens)

The blisters on my feet, they penetrate into the depths of my bed
And I sit on it
It serves its function without any rest but an endless repetition of regressed behaviour through generations and ages
Until we remember these roles we once played within the balcony of lightness, safety in the crumbling walls of domestic land
That we forge and remove to recreate it into a placement of forgetfulness
and then of remembrance, but only to dismiss and relearn
To stand, the four of us, we say yes! We are all here
Glancing around the edges of ourselves, staring at the frays to correct correct correct
Well I'm corrected and all that's left is material and that's just, it's okay because we have our television and that will do for us all as a unifier
So that we can carry on telling reflections of ourselves in the light and slipping into silence in the dark
And for me, to return and to sit with my blisters and pick at my reasons, there is life! There is life in front of me and it keeps me awake at night
Not pleasure no
Just life, ticking and clicking itself through its own birth
and the suitcase has caved in on itself my burden my burden
It burdens.