Here I stare at this bloody holiday.
Where's my butterfly knife?
I want to swing it and point right at the world.

There was I, on the bed of my room.
Dimly lit because the curtains were still drawn down;
because the sun didn't sun so bright even if I draw it up.
Lying, staring at the ceiling.

Where the hell's my holidays?
I'm pissed off by time.
My mind throws reminders of me about this and about that;
That I've yet to do; that I might have no time.
My mind throws possibilities of the world in a mess;
North Korea with its bombs;
H1N1 with its cases;
Politics;
Celebrity scandal.

This whole bloody world's in a mess.
Who knows?
By the step out of this bed, maybe a war will start and people would die?
But people already have died, by a virus or by stress or by life itself.

I know I shouldn't think of it.
I try to flush the information out of my mind.
But it sticks like post-it notes; Like a fly in fly paper.

Perhaps I won't point my butterfly knife at the world.
I'll point it a myself.
But I've yet to get one...