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A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken

In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all

It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided
Owen May 3
I always hated Sundays.
They riddled me
with anxiety
from morning till midnight.
A sense of dread,
hanging my heart
and my head.
Another week gone
and I'm still here,
feeling all alone
its all almost
too much to bear.
I'm crippled by
lack of control.
Sunday's my chest caved in
with the weight of my soul.
Ida Mar 15
I've spent an eternity staring at my own reflection
Trying to find out exactly what made me get here
and I've only ever found out one thing
That my life is absolutely pointless
but I also have a feeling that if I spend another eternity here
I will realize something else entirely

Because I've been having these dreams lately
these vivid, disgusting dreams
in which I know exactly the answer to the question I ask myself
And in these dreams, I don't seem the way I imagine myself to be
when I find out the answer
When I find out the answer
I imagine myself joyful
because why else would I spend eternities
trying to find out why I'm here
if if would not grant me a lifetime of joy?

I seem to be walking quietly around my childhood home
looking at my hands as they rot in front of me
And I'm walking heavily, you see
like I'm being chained to the earth
and I would have to spend yet another eternity
just walking around my neighborhood

I just keep walking until my feet turns into soil
And I turn into soil

I know now why I can't keep searching for something
I will never find
Good Morning Sunday
I have waited all week for you
To be with me in thought and light prayer too

We have been again thru a long week
some of it quite chaotic
Ending so gently and happily cathartic
People and places pains of past and present
seemingly disappear

Entering in the ***** kitchen window
Sunshine breaks thru

Collecting my coffee
and whats left of my sanity
I inhale a habit

My heart is confused but light
as I pray in the same

Our Father is always best
when we are just ourselves
and let him
Take the helm and this day to rest

I am all that you think but none that you know
Father grant us serenity
Sunday Vibes to Flow
#happySunday #poetryconfession #iamokay #theatricaldiagnosis #GodBlessUsAll #Iwontgiveup #Istilllove #tryinghardertorelax
She sits on the cold tile floor
Her life flashes before her eyes
4 am regrets.

The lack of sleep is just getting to her.

The shadows loom over the curtains
The pictures of her past start collapsing on the floor
Her head hits the back of the wooden bed panel

Could you wish for anything more unhanded?

The music from the neighbors flat echoes into the night
The barely visible drawings on the wall sneer at her
Its past her bedtime.

Who are you waiting up for anymore?

The ringing in her ears grow louder
The hours pass by slipping through the cracks of the drain.
Who are you crying to anymore?

There is no one to confess to.

The mirror overshadows the bed like church pews at midnight
She tells her that she never loved her.
She disappeared into the clouds that loom over the moon.

Her watch tells her to sleep.

She sighs and climbs back into bed
She remembers that she never loved her.
She remembers the scars that trail along her back.

Her life cannot help but flash before her eyes.

The ceiling morphs and twists
Her eyes flutter shut as her mind plays its tricks
She caresses the scars that itch at the roots of her hair.

Maybe its better this way for everyone.

She can no longer hear the heart beating slowly in the closet
Her mother told her that she is worthless
She begs for the sleep to take her.
Before her mind starts wandering to that point.

The darkness feels cool against her skin
The crooked mattress settling in its place
She sleeps on her side to avoid the bedroom mirror
The world grows still around her as it walks

on ******* eggshells.

The dawn permeates through the broken window sill
She never was a heavy sleeper.
She went missing out of nowhere
The ringing of her phone echoed in her ears

like Sunday bells.

And there was no more trace of the former shadows that pitifully gazed at her in the corners of her room.

yoOOu never loved me moooooooom but i needed you woaAaah
I am
on a path
From Human Being
To Loathing Being
To Loving Being
To Simply being
I am
Short Sunday musings
I sometimes talk to others with the same tone I talk to myself
With the same criticality, the same distain
Sometimes I don’t
Sometimes I’m forgiving, I’m tender
Sometimes I’m compassionate and kind
I must remember this
To keep it in mind
For the next time
Myself and I
Speak again
short Sunday musings
ce-walalang Feb 8
...a pillow
...another pillow
...mixtapes and re-runs
..."500 days of" DVD
...the TV on mute
...your restless hopeful heart
end of weekend companion
Matt Jan 28
Years ago,
They used to sleep late
And dance around their kitchen.

Before arthritis and cod liver oil,
Before endless hospital appointments,
Before the cancer devoured his wife.

They had spent their life savings,
On doctors who couldn’t save her life.

Penniless, alone and vulnerable,
He could no longer look after himself.

He stopped existing in a government care home,
With nurses who never smiled
And room mates who stared at the TV,
Like flowers facing the sun.

His children didn’t visit on Sundays,
They were busy sleeping late
And dancing around their kitchens.
Ken Pepiton Jan 24
Ein Bisschen
Un poco
an arbitrary bit of art as intuited.

Did you defy the order of life's proper
sequence, by knowing next begins after
the Hallelujah, right and proper,

that's the stopper.
There, dear reader, we pause and ponder,
as in
Right and proper.

A bit off here, a bit from there, pack it into
a classical schema, which
was a word I learned after learning scheme
as the core concept used to form conspiracy,
you see,
if you were, in an immaterial sense, feeling
we are similar,
perhaps we are common, good thought of
as a type of person any mind may make up,
to tell a long and winding story as if it is
this one,
life on earth, 2021.

After the changes, when we remove the masks,
we see others of my kind, mit **** sapience sapience-augmentated,
we be, in a greegri state
seeds of former
things informing
us, subjects  of all we know as good or evil,
good for us, not evil for me, once
enough is realized.

Realizing just enough to manifest a will to make good.
Aye, AI, there we have it.
Make up, test.
You bit, you chew, you bitchew. Life is fun, once,
for a little while.
Seventy or eighty years...
who knows how long our words remain.

schema (n.)plural schemata, 1796, in Kantian philosophy
("a product of the imagination intermediary between an image and a concept"),
from Greek skhema 
"figure, appearance, the nature of a thing,"
related to skhein "to get,"
and ekhein "to have, hold; be in a given state or condition,"
from PIE root *segh- "to hold."
Meaning "diagrammatic representation" is from 1890;
general sense of "hypothetical outline" is by 1939.

From <>
Make fun when we find none. Then make sense, to see if it feels
right and proper, like art intent on making peace where only its memory was;
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