Routine Poem by Not Long Left

Eyes open,
and fight to close,
Ears are hit,
by the sound,
of a childs impatient cry.
outside the sky,
is black with anger.
Feet touch the hard, bare floor,
little arms reach out,
and the crying is no more.
All of this before,
the sun fully greets,
the street.
downstairs,
in the kitchen,
lips are briefly burnt,
by hot bitter coffee.
lungs, get there first punishment,
of the day,
plumes of smoke,
make there way,
to the internal smoking room.
then to the bathroom,
to groom,
the face,
that no longer carry's the soft
down
of youth.
lost,
when the truth of poverty,
revealed it puss ridden head
sore, red skin,
all of this before,
i begin to feel human.
bottom takes it place on the throne,
and i await for the bomb to drop.
Teeth are de- stained,
and if only for a while,
i have a hollywood smile,
routine is a destoyer of imigination,
yet i need routine
to imagine,
what if......