Rage against 7am

Death to 7am. No, not a metaphorical death, but a real death. The kind of death that blimps this time out of history, out of existence, out of misery. Stupid 7am. I wish the clocks would melt before they struck seven, I wish my eyelids could stay sewed with sleep and never bother about opening up like those stupid dolls the moment the hour hand hits 7am. 

 It's a ghastly time to be awake, no matter what the timezone. Hell has frozen over in this part of the world, but somehow 7am doesn't give a flying rats ass. My nemesis, mortal enemy, morning ache. 

I don't want to be up at seven, and stare through blankets, half squinting, half wishing I was asleep. My feet wrapped in warmth, that took me all night to conjure, and now must I sigh and cast away my nightly armour and step into cold morning shoes, just cuz it's 7am? Hell no. 

Ah, but try as I might, each morning, regular as a clockwork, something inside me jolts me awake and each time it's 7am. 

We can never be friends seven. You stupid odd number.