What’s up with my head
as I stumble out of bed
and try to remove the poem
I dictated earlier into my phone?

It never should’ve been sent;
and no attack was meant.
‘Twas a statement from my brain
of my heart’s Deep Pain.

It was not to be perceived as an attack.
I should gladly arise to take it back.
But I’m just too damn tired.
My waking hours have expired.

So, when my hair is coiffed and cuter,
I’ll gladly go to my computer
and erase the message I dictated;
That, clearly, should’ve simply waited.

I’ll repeat, simply, that I’m so sorry.
That’s my early-morning story.