I refuse to let the party die
I never want the high to go away
The thrill of being able to say,
What you want to say

And in that moment
You figure out
That you're drunk,

Come, monday
You'll be in a single, twin bed
Waking up to a phone alarm
Wondering how you ended up here
Miles away from home

Netflix & chill is a must.
We laugh & we touch.
Could this be love or is it lust?
What if this just isn't destined for us?
It's you that I want.
It's you that I trust.
Don't keep those feelings bundled up to yourself.
I'm here to help, cause you're the one.
You own the crown & the belt.
You're top shelf.
You're the love of my life.
My moon & my stars.
Can I be your sun & light, just for tonight?
With me everything is alright.
I am your knight in shining armor down on one knee hoping you'll take a chance on me.

I'm not taken aback by the beauty of the sun or moon.

But that's okay, at least I've learned in time that there are very little differences between objects labeled mine and days considered wasted time. Entitlement is a false concept paralleling a religious purgatory.

That's not the point anyways. I'm left with unbearable heat and a pool of thoughts best resembling some sort of molten pudding left out in the sun for weeks of stifling inattention.

Let it just be known that the smell was not my intention.

Regardless of what fills your nostrils ephemerally, keep in mind that this stench haunts me perpetually. It's apathy towards my sensitive skull stifles me. It's as if I was able to just shake off these shadow-inducing invaders like a bad habit. But no matter how much you try to **** a shadow, it's always there following you. Breathing on you. Casting oxygen upon your neck until there's nothing but sweat and fear left to expose.

With such an affinity to what darkness lies behind me, there are few words to authentically compose.

How can I continue? How can the beat stay in rhythm and my words stay in tune when I'm a butterfly stuck in a cocoon? If these hollowed walls could speak I bet they'd entertain the idea on meaningless entrapment.

Go now. My words for this horrid state of mind have run dry. They do nothing but mask themselves and then exponentially multiply.

So leave me for the beauty of the sun and the moon. I'll never wish anything more than a simple, concurrent release of everyone from his or her respective cocoon.

Debits on the left credits on the right
balancing such wastefull transactions
debits on the left credits on  the right
hating myself for youthful actions
debits on the left credits on the right
Who told you about job satisfaction?

I know it's cliché  
*But **** Monday

Mange møder lige to timer senere
Sender trætte signaler ud i den travle by,
som ingen kan følge med i.
I byen, hvor alt alligevel starter automatisk op til en ny uge.
Uden hjælp fra de mange, der møder lige to timer senere.

Senere, udskudt, fortrængt, ligegyldigt.
Lige om lidt.
Lidt er ligegyldigt. Småt er ikke stort og lave forventninger er det samme som ingen. Der er brug for det bedste.
Bedre skal det være.
Men mange møder lige to timer senere, når det er en grå mandag og alt uden for dynen er koldt og ligegyldigt.

My sister had to personify the days of the week, and as a child, I could see how that would be hard, because she hasn’t lived enough to know why--
Sunday has to wear tights to church, to cover the rug burns on her knees, and she woke up so early, to cover the bruises on her neck.

She hasn’t dreaded enough to know that–
Monday stares at herself in the mirror, rubbing her stomach, tilting her head, and hoping that her mother won’t ask her what she had for breakfast or her friends won’t notice she didn’t touch anything on her tray.

Nor has she had the opportunity to feel so mundane, so boring, like--
Tuesday as she taps her pencil like a metronome against a wooden desk, where initials of ex-lovers were etched into the surface.

And I’m not quite sure she’s felt the drag that--
Wednesday takes, with her heart fluttering because he touched her hand as he passed her the joint; nor has she felt the harsh exhale that Wednesday wheezes out so viciously.

She hasn’t felt the impatience and anxiousness that–
Thursday gets as she checks her underwear and downs yet another cup of orange juice, then clambering into her hot bath; she’s stopped taking her birth control for the month and can’t wait for Nature’s gift to arrive.

But she doesn’t truly understand the relief that–
Friday brings as she finishes her chores, going above and beyond for her ill mother who promises she won’t **** over if her daughter goes out for a crazy night on the town with her friends.

However, she might understand the laziness and lovability of Saturday.
Saturday likes the ocean on her feet, even with yesterday’s sand caked between her toes, and she forgets to wipe on the mat before charging into the hotel and jumping on the bed, before snuggling up under the covers, with the television set on, playing nothing but mindless soap operas or black and white movies.