I sat with myself and painted a picture
thoughts can create a distracting mixture
my elixir?
Running parallel to peril
hoping those same thoughts became sterile
slowly becoming fortune’s foe
standing toe to toe with
a monster, my monster, the imposter
who likes playing doctor prescribing more self judgement
self inflicted punishment
and I can't let my thoughts run rampant
the cost of two face talent
everything needs balance
changed my habitat to reach metamorphosis
metaphorically floors above yours I’ve laid the ground work for this
so don’t try to match wits, you matched up against an all out blitz
full throttle my charisma is out of the bottle
having emerged from the darkest of dreams
behind the scenes, behind the screams
I awoke to start sowing up the seams
whipping up elaborate schemes
to ****** my forgotten future upstream
somethings I’ll admit are out of reach
but my experiences moved me in ways my father couldn’t teach
made me the man I am, proved my resilience can’t be breached
Geared up for the appearance
grabbed a hold of my perseverance
disabled all interference leading up to this ascension
see these words that flow from my pen
can pierce you, strike you from within.
A picture says a thousand words,
but my words can lay a thousand year siege
helping me hone in on my prestige

sunday nights at the house are brutal
yelling and being *******
taking our arguments and stuffing them in our pillowcases
to confront the next night

we go to bed angry
not at ourselves but at each other
but we don't care
we'll separate into our rooms
distance ourselves to our own space
think, breathe, and think again

we are not a family
merely people dependent on people
we do not share the same taste
or the same aspiration to exist

we are simply people angry at people in a house on sunday night

I've got a confession

What's my lesson?

Marlin Brando
Flounders
Off the coast

Who can boast?

The host

Steal the roast
And walk away
without even a ******* toast

Today, lets enjoy the simple pleasures  
Whilst disregarding the morning luminosity
when the city wakes, our impulse to be fainéant grows
a comfortable silence, filled with slow music at a moderate level
whilst slowly turning pages of a book, dismiss time and live in the moment.
~Sunday

If I was the kind of girl who kept her thoughts to herself,
If I could bite my tongue and bat my eyes without thinking so far ahead,
If I knew how to dip my toes in the water without drowning in affection,
If I were made to be subtle and delicate,
maybe it would be easier to find someone to lay beside on Sunday morning.
But why would I want a boy who only loves the watered-down version of me?
I'd rather spend my life in solitude
than beside someone who only wants me on the shallow end.

I find a small comfort in those slow Sunday afternoons
when time moves like thick molasses,
the sun shines through my window
and fills me with warmth
when the universe feels so much bigger than me,
and you,
and all of this.
I can rest easy,
curl up into a blanket of safety,
knowing that nothing I do matters.
The things I choose to do or not do will not alter the course of the universe,
will not be significant beyond my own small corner of space and time.
The joy I find in the curl of my hair,
or the comfort of this chair,
matter only because I matter to me.

Sundays are meant for relaxation

But yet we still have the stress of Monday

Sundays are when you're supposed to be rested

But we're all exhausted

Even though Sunday is terrible

We always have a cup of coffee to help get us through