it's sunday morning
i'm sitting at the table
you're still in bed
but i hear the alarm go
you'll be down soon.
i'm the morning person.
i've made you tea,
and myself some coffee
stirred in some honey
some toast
some jam
a few slices of fruit
the birds outside are
joyfully conversing
about their warm
restful evenings.
cars pass our home
and the sunlight
that reaches through
the window begs me
to stay in this infinite
paradise that is a life
with you, my darling
whoever you are
this figment of my
imagination
whom i dream of at the
earliest points of the
day, wishing and waiting
to spend a simple
sunday morning
with you.

listen to "stay here" by rhoda while you read

On Sundays the creatures
Ooze from their awkward dwellings,
Like fat worms after a downpour,
And rush the City.

They infect silently with their sick eyes,
They brush along your shoulder in passing,
They exchange dirty money,
They cause accidents.

They stare at you from across
Your favorite diners
With black coffee depression
And mutter underneath their breaths:
"This isn't real."

By Corey Parsons
Dori Oct 8

It’s 4 in the morning on a Saturday and you haven’t slept in 3 days because you don’t know how to sleep without hearing those three words that you've always so foolishly believed. So you just lay there flat on your stomach with your ear against the mattress, drowning in silence and choking back vomit your stomach is too empty to throw up. At this point the sound of your heart beating at all makes you anxious and confused because how does a guitar make music without any strings? You’re rocking back and forth, tossing and turning trying to escape, but you won’t sleep because yesterday she promised to love you through anything and now you know that when Sunday comes around you will have lost everything.

Like you wanted this, some
running commentary,

sounds like god, sounds like you, your voice all muddled and faraway, your voice like chicken soup I burn my tongue on,

day after sorry day.

These little ironies,
these hands that pat you on the back like a boxing glove.

You never wanted it to turn out this way,
the field swallowing us up,
the sea parted for someone else to walk through
while we flounder with the swordfish,

left high and dry.

No, never this.

Never this slow silence, never this leave the bullet.

There's three words, but
they're not what you think they are.

Three words, slithering between the tiles,
stitching the years together.

Three words,

simmering in their pan.

Will you drive me out of Eden
like you mean it?

the pew in front of me
Nienke Sep 23

bet you just didn't love me
but instead you told me
you want something
or something else
it all goes so easy
too easy i guess
one step forward
one step back
and gone, it is
sundaymorning
without a kiss
it's strange that we exist
but we are not there
the feelings, the loss
all left soon enough
everything gone
and i should be happy
to reach for the nothing
the afterlife of myself
like my invisible dreams
there's much more to see
bet there's more than it seems

Juansen Dizon Sep 24

i pray.

i pray that i will recover from this illness.
i pray that i will feel the joy, peace, and love
that i’ve been longing for.

i pray.

i pray that i will have the strength to better myself.
i pray that i will never lose hope in times of despair.

i pray.

i pray that i will heal every single day of the rest of my life.
i pray that i will experience less pain and more pleasure every
single day of the rest of my life.

i pray.

i pray that i will think more rationally.
i pray that i will feel that the things around me are real and not
an illusion or a dream.

i pray.

i pray that i will soon get well.
i pray for the belief that i will soon get well.

amen.
amen.
amen.

Elysia Sep 8

Dawn light rises above my apartment balcony
giving life and colour to my potted friends
(especially the orange of my marigolds)

The chirping of blue, yellow winged souls
resounding in my empty ears
as they hop and dance to the harmony
of my shuffling footsteps
with sunlight as their spotlight

The chug of steam exits my panelled window
my rose coffee screening its scent
onto the projection of my nose

My vinyl records shifted aside,
finding my favourite one.

Sinatra sings;
Holiday serenades,
I pick up my pencil
scribbling away
-- a perfect sunday morning to spend.

I wrote this in a bookstore after reading some poetry from Lang Leav. God I love her poetry. xx
Steve Page Sep 4

As sure as Sunday
As mean as Monday
As true as Tuesday
And Wednesday goes by
As dark as Thursday
As bright as Friday
As soft as a Saturday morning sigh

As sure as Sunday and the rest follows.

Church bells ring
the lord calling you to bring your unclean soul
he that forgives all
is ready to wash you clean
take away all of your flaws
Sunday morning love is in the air
He that loves you is ready to fill your void
Protect you so you won't be destroyed
take away your emptiness
and fill you with holiness
clean your mess
while you say your grace
pray for forgiveness
he even listens to the smallest requests

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