His form adorns the mirror glass;
Unhappy.
Within himself;
At himself.
It’s November.
Too late to change.
“Leave it ‘til New Year,”
He says.
“No point in doing it now.”
He continues;
The same burden of dissatisfaction,
Continually weighing him down.
December comes.
Christmas.
New Years Eve.
All pass in a flash.
January 1st.
The mirror.
“Today is Tuesday,” he mutters.
“Odd day to start.
“I’ll do it next Monday!”
Next Monday arrives.
It’s a busy one.
Too busy to be fixing routines.
“Soon…”
January.
February.
March.
April.
May.
Life goes on;
What’s another day?
Plenty of time to change,
Just not now.
Now isn’t the time.
Maybe next January 1st, eh?
Maybe not!
The Adventures of an Average, White Man...© 
okay, Mr. I-only-dabble-in-poetry-it’s-not-really-my-thing!
Your poetry, the ideas you come up with, the way you place words, the rhythm, the themes… you’re AMAZING at this.
This poem is the thought process of literally every human ever.
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I really appreciate your compliments 🙂 I definitely feel less comfortable writing poetry than anything else, but I think that’s because I’ve seen what others write and it’s usually filled with language I daren’t use.
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It is a lovely, yet sad poem. 😊
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Now that 👆is worrysome🤔😛
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Don’t you worry about us. We’re just fine.
P.S. Send nudes.
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Sure ya are..& Nope.
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Blasted rug munchers everywhere these days!
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Good, but you’re no Edwin Saxton, bitch!
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Ginger, Welsh spunkbubble!
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