Staying in again.

Don’t really want to come out,

It’s cold,

I’m tired,

Not sure I want you as a friend (don’t say that one).

 

A myriad of excuses to stay put.

Meanwhile, the phobia of inertness creeps through the veins,

Like septicemia,

Without the physical effects,

On my body.

 

Meanwhile, my soul becomes changed a little more,

And sadness remains.