Disorganized

My ceiling fan refuses to rotate
And the radio wont stop blaring away.
My books are on the bed,
Clothes strewn all around.
No bed sheet to cover myself
And the plaster on the wall is peeling off.
Paper upon paper upon paper
I can't find a single pen
Even a pencil would have done
But bluntness has conquered it long ago.
When I open my morning chronicler
I see my sharpener has found a place in the obituary columns.
I can only thank God
For my heart is still pumping blood into my lungs.