Poems about Sunday


№ 1210473

Sunday night

The melancholy soaks your heart in an ocean of ice. you
Are drowning but feel no pain, just a
Numbness that spreads to your fingers and toes and
A cold whose depths have no limit. your mind is the
Two-faced mayor of your body, knowing that everything is
All right but
Plunging and holding you under at the same time,
Torturing you only to show that it can.
It knows every beautiful thing in the world but also every
Unflinching horror, and
Pries your eyes open to parade in front of you
A sea of images of utter despair and desperation.
It is like the world's worst propaganda, the most corrupt
Media company ever to have existed. it
Brings you from the pinnacle of your existence, the
Sun-dappled happiest moments of your life, to lying
Fetal and trembling
In the dark
It is an 80-foot monster wave that is the purest
Adrenaline rush you have ever sought, and in a split second, it
Holds you under until you wish you were dead.

You still have air in your lungs, though, and a heart that stubbornly
Refuses to stop pumping and bringing life to your body.
You have legs that remember, and enjoy, the gift of walking, of running,
Skipping, skating.
You have fingers that know how to hit keys on a keyboard, wrists
That can bend to let you write and draw anything that you want.
Your mind isn't everything and you can beat it,
No matter what it tells you.

night,  sunday.

Author: Janet Li
Date: 07/04/2020

№ 1209850

Easy, like sunday morning.

I spend my sundays waiting for the sun to reach the edge of my sagging roof porch and
In the sprawling moments in which i wait i flip through pages which tell me of my destiny
And i try to figure out why the fuck i care about a future that i may never know,
But good god do i care.

These words swim in front of me like creatures in an effervescent pool, glowing green,
Because of some strange algae scum that sticks to them and their surroundings,
Forever catching my eye and interest, though they will never leave the pool, or in this case,
The pages on which they lie.

I analyze each past moment in contingency with each morsel of advice this book has to offer
And i wonder how many times i've already fucked up on my karmic path,
But somehow i find comfort in the small intricacies that weave within my own existence,
Time passed in the way the book spells it out.

I start to wonder if this is any different than witch craft, or religion,
And i find myself faced with another question, what exactly do i believe in?
Suddenly i realize that the purpose of this book isn't to give me answers, it's to make me ask questions,
And that's when i slam it shut.

I'm sick of answering questions and wondering who i am, like i'm some fucking hero from an epic,
Plus the sun's starting to warm the dark roof that scrapes my bare feet when i pace back and forth,
And the only thing that makes sense right now is going outside and
Lighting my last god damn cigarette.

easy,  morning,  sunday.

Author: Quinn
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1209724

Another Sunday

I've tried to scream
I am a mute
River of tears
A useless flute

I've tried to hide
But I am big
Cowering behind
Black oil rigs

I've tried to love
Without a heart
Painful feeling
Lemon tart

I've tried to die
I cannot
Waiting, waiting
Last gunshot


Author: Grey Noelle
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1208808

Because it's nearly Sunday.

Tell me where it is written that
Spring's in the air or birds
Sing on the wing,
Oh, there.

I'll read anything and do, but
The birds flew away
And Summer
Sweet Summer
Stayed for a day and then went.

Autumn becomes me
With its ashen grey light shades
Stun me
Though I don't notice it much anymore.

It is the splinter of old bones
And skin hanging loose
That betray me to Winter
And Winter comes only
To slay me.

It takes twenty three seconds
To free me
And immortality beckons me
To the reckoning.

I reckon there's still time to go and
Sew a few seconds more into
A life
That I lived once before,
Making two and two equal five
Staying alive by
My reckoning.


Author: John Edward Smallshaw
Date: 06/04/2020

№ 1206583

Sleepy sunday

I'm completely devoted to falling asleep slowly,
Those 3 pm's, laundry mountain on my bed,
Dreaming/thinking possibilities and plans
And too tired to have anxiety about to-morrow's
And to-do's.
I drift in and out of consciousness,
The upstair's neighbors' crisp footsteps
Thieve me from dreams
But i always settle, and still,
And drift back to my dewy and downy snooze.

sleepy,  sunday.

Author: vf
Date: 04/04/2020

№ 1205022

Sunday mornin'

It's past four am
And i bet you're sleeping
In the next room
But everybody in here is snoring
If only i could hear you snoring
Because i'm sure it will still be soothing
If it's coming from you.

But today
You touched my hand
And it was such a simple movement
But i couldn't breathe
But i couldn't focus
And i laughed when you laughed
Because i wasn't listening
To the conversation
Just communicating with your hands

I could smell you
Raw and pure
As you pressed my head
Into your chest

And, oh lord, i swear i can smell him through these walls

(or maybe it's your smell clinging to my t-shirt liKe i'm clinging so desperately to the thought of you)

And i'm on this cold sofa
And your warm arms are so close
But not close Enough

And it's past four am
And i want you
So innocently
To just hold me
Let me listen to your heartbeat
To steady mine

And it's past four am
And i still think you're beautiful
When you're tired
And your sleepy eyes are my favourite
In their darkened shade of blue

I woke up around four am
And looked instantly to where you were
And it's shock
Because you're gone
Because i couldn't watch you sleep
And you couldn't steady my thoughts with your very presence

And it's past four am
And i'd love you to walk back in here
And take me by the hand
And just hold me close to you
And let me sleep away the nightmares.

Because i would treasure every damn second

It's five am
And i'm still awake
And you're still beautiful and
Endlessly fascinating
(i'm begging for sleep so i can see you sooner)
And you're way out of my league
And it's all just pointless daydreams

But you touched my hand.

mornin,  sunday.

Author: Luce
Date: 02/04/2020

№ 1201561

Sunday roast -No!!!

I call you for dinner
At the roast beef you glare
You sulk at the table
And kick at my chair
"I don't want it" you cry
"I hate veggies" you moan
But a young boy can't live on Mcnuggets alone!

You call me a meanie
You say it's not fair
To make you eat green stuff
"I won't eat it, so there! "

You hunch up your shoulders
Arms crossed, lips shut tight
Your stare is defiant
As you fight for your right
To eat what you want to
And do as you please
My 5 year old rebel
With scabs on both knees

You'll eat it eventually
And I'll secretly laugh
'cause round two is coming
I'm running your bath!

roast,  sunday.

Author: Ryan Jakes
Date: 30/03/2020

№ 1201497

Sunday Morning by, Krisselle S. Cosgrove

Is it really Sunday? I thought it was Monday...
I can...
Go back to bed, or read for awhile
Or, take a walk with a smile
I got up at four
Thinking that I had to
Head out the door...
Well, that being said,
I think I'll go
Back to bed.

cosgrove,  krisselle,  morning,  sunday.

Author: TigerEyes
Date: 30/03/2020