Mondays are a drain
they are dementors
they feel like an anvil
they taste like recovery
and exhaustion
like your neck isnt strong enough
and your brain is rebooting
i am constantly troubleshooting at life
looking for a solution
to make getting out of bed easier

Sunday is for birds to sing
and to swing among vines of bedsheets,
for moving hair out of your eyes, to cry
in sadness and joy and feel the warmth of your body.
Sunday is for birds to sing
while we string ourselves into knots
and leave the windows open for spring
to carry the sounds of singing along

Magic spells, theres synth
in the air. Don’t you want to dance?
Dance to the keyboard spring,
with the flowers and the flags
blowing in the breeze, never ending.

I feel like a clown
makeup running down
my face, from the rain,
the pain of feeling clouds
blocking my sunshine dreams

The bridge between hell and home
its long, and always has no sun
the hell of looking down and the wind
the gravity pulls your gaze
there is a liar in the calm sounds
of the waves calling me to come to bed

Knock knock.
I heard it in my sleep,
in my head,
I heard the knocking
between the weather change,
between the fleeting cold mornings
and the calm of the sun on my afternoon skin.
I heard the knock of it all coming together,
the season, waking me from the nightmare.

I looked in your eyes and they were moonlight,
piercing the darkness, unlike sunshine, unlike
the burning you feel when you get too close to something
fake. I looked into your moonlight eyes and I saw pools
of blue cascading like a waterfall over crystal, distorted shimmer.
It wasn't even like looking at eyes, it was just looking into something
I wanted to steal and lock away, in a corner of my closet
where no light could scratch.