Reece Jun 2013 That Wednesday Feeling (The Happiest Thing I Ever Did Write) It's the same day again, another Monday, everyday is Monday Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday The rain is pouring and its Monday, I have to go to work I'm stocking shelves on Monday and the rain is pouring I see the blonde girl and I avoid her eyes because its Monday Perhaps on Tuesday I'll smile at her but its Monday and its raining I'm taking a cigarette break on Monday and its raining still Now I'm buying painkillers because its Monday and the rain seeps through my hood on Monday Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday "Is the bus late?" "Yes, probably because its Monday." Solemn faces on Monday Crying children on Monday Jaded skies on Monday Will the sun be shining on Friday? Who knows, I only exist on Monday and its raining again.
jack of spades Apr 2017 february 1st, 1999, was a monday with a full moon You’re a Monday child, born on the first day of the week-- the weakest link-- You’re like the moon. You’ve got nothing to give-- the sharp darkness of your crescent is someone else’s shadow, and your light is nothing but the reflection of something bigger and brighter than you. You’re a disappointment child, potential building like the Tower of Babel, everyone telling you that if you had just tried hard enough, then you could have touched God. But you’re just a Monday child, an extrovert who runs up the electricity bill by leaving on all the lights when you’re home alone, how even with your earbuds in you leave the TV on. Pretending to be near people who are alive makes you feel a little less like you already died a long time ago. Darkness doesn’t take days off and neither do your thoughts, so wrap yourself in stars. You want to find light in the constellations but it’s hard to trace lines between dots behind fog. Mondays are longer on Mars. You were born with stress in your veins, heaping projects with no real due date, in a constant state of waiting for Friday, but weekends are for the weary, and the taut line of your spine implies that you don’t deserve a break. The thing about Mondays is that they’re crushing, filled with longing, the way that you only feel homesick when you look up at the moon and her fraud light. You wrap yourself in nebulae and galaxies to try to keep the homesickness at bay while you sleep. Nothing will ever be good enough. You will never be good enough. You are a Monday child, a bitter aftertaste of someone else’s loss, like you’ve smiled too brightly at a stranger leaving a funeral home. You dug your own grave a long time ago. Your eyes are clouded with looking too far forward, stretching yourself backwards, hanging onto the aftertaste of the weekend while living for the next. You hang like laundry, brittle in cold wind, the step between that no one likes to linger on. You were born on a Monday. But your eighteenth birthday fell on a Wednesday, your sixteenth on a Sunday, and you are more than a desperate reach for empty space. The Tower of Babel did not touch God. You are not here for someone else to tell you to touch God. You are not here for someone else. You may be a disappointment child, with your Monday fog eyes and shaking hands, but sometimes you have to choose your own joy over someone else’s expectations-- because I was born on a Monday, and poetry comes easier than physics but nothing calms me down quite like solving differential equations. I was born on a Monday, and I’m used to looking at other people’s faces and seeing disappointment because I don’t think I'm quite what any of us wanted me to be. I cling to the past the way that Monday clings to Sunday, but daydream about the future like it’s Saturday. The problem is Tuesday through Friday, because nothing quite makes me want to die like the concept of planning out the rest of my life. I think I’ll be alright, though, because on Monday nights I look at the stars and think that I might be figuring out how to feel alive, like maybe home is in the constellations that I still don’t quite know. Maybe home is in the Mondays, or maybe it’s in the weary camaraderie of humanity’s ability to cling to weekdays. Most days, I have to remind myself that this is just the beginning, simultaneously relieving and daunting, because I’m scared of the future and I’m scared of being disappointing. I’m a Monday child, born under a full moon that feels like home whether I’m looking at it from Jamaica or Germany or Kansas City. Chaos comes with the start of the week, and losing myself has always felt comforting: that’s the only time when I have no one else to be.
Zelda Morgan Nov 2014 Jamie Jamie wakes up A gunshot from within Eyelids crash into the cage Jamie gets up The heavy shadow also rises The unwanted, only company Jamie takes a shower Water pouring hot and clean as angry man's blood The bars cannot be washed nor melted Jamie, the golden child Jamie's gold is turning into stone Jamie takes a bus ride Circumventing the forever nameless faces Are their shields up too? Jamie gets to school Nails buried deep within the palms A secret buried deep within it's ugliest of kingdoms Jamie laughs much too loudly For it takes an earthquake to cover the storm It's relentless shivers just won't die Jamie, the martyr The crown of thorns restlessly resting on Jamie's head Jamie walks back Way back Yesterday's sun - today's dark cloud Jamie listens to a song Swimming in the pool of ease A pool much too shallow for Jamie's big fat shadow Jamie stops to smell the flowers But finds none Only a concrete meadow swallows Jamie's feet Nobody ever considers Jamie But this evening Jamie is considering Jamie comes back home And finds all hopes lay fast asleep Or is it the reek of death? Jamie undresses, and then some more The essence without thick skin collapses It's tortured and it tortures It's weak and it weakens It's broken and it brakes The menacing trigger The blood flow The bare images of hot white pain It all drifts away As Jamie drifts into sleep Jamie, the divine soul tainted Much too used to taking bullets Jamie, the heart that bravely fought Jamie, for who would have thought so many demons could live within an angel?