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Rohan P Sep 2018
red-breasted swallows chase
love on our
grave. She piles the earth, spoonful
by spoonful—

I see a torrent of brown
in her hair,
I see her dancing in the early
morning light.
i found something when we were apart.
pri Sep 2018
have i ever told you how your music sounds
-on soft sunday september mornings?
my apologies.

i imagine the world wakes up,
and expects there to be soft frost on the windows.
in reality, the leaves have barely begun to turn sunset colored.

we play soft jazz, something like, and waltz around the room.
we wrap our hair above our heads,
watching it droop ever so slightly until it’s puff is silken soft and messy.

and wait, until it comes time to run to school,
in those sweaters and jackets, to feel so a part of life,
jumping and dancing on cold aluminum bleachers.

the strangest thing is that i feel so close to you
-we can become the girls of dances and games and skates,
highschool sweethearts.

idly, i wonder if this strange sunday september morning
has made me wonder this,
because the music that plays in my ears seems to say yes.

it’s an ode to these girls of legend, the ones we define our lives by,
come together to watch, and slowly,
dance to the music and twirl.

also, did i mention, it’s a little dark,
because those sun rays i used to so love have truly run out and become outdated,
and the music becomes slower and turns into bright friday night lights in the dark.
inspired by the brobecks (check them out!!) and the coming of fall.
I died on a Sunday.
My body numb from her words
Punctured in my heart .
Breathless. I could not inhale the change . I buried the pain and turned the page .
My life was traded with the unknown.
I mourned the loss of the future and not the past. Everything I had hoped for was ripped from my grasp .
That was the end of me .
Sarah Radzi Aug 2018
Everytime I close my eyes,
Sunday afternoon comes to mind.
Sometimes when I close my eyes,
there is only white noises.
The Sunday in my head is always sunny;
rarely it rains.
When it rains on Sunday,
I am reminded of school uniform;
sweaty and sticky,
but it is still Sunday.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I can smell Sunday.
The smell of Sunday in my head—
consists of jasmine, pandan, and milk.
The Sunday in my head rarely rains.
When it rains, it smells like **** and soil.
The sunny side of my Sunday is not always bright—
and my wet Sunday is not always gloomy.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see myself tracing Sunday.
I run my fingers through the odds of—
possibilities and the ambience of the present.
You see, I cannot imagine anyone but myself—
in my Sunday.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see no one.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see silhoutte of myself.
Everytime I close my eyes,
I see myself leaving trails.
Everytime I close my eyes,
It was all in my head all along.
Blessed with the odds,
my Sunday goes by very slowly;
so slow sometimes I caught myself in turbulence.
From violent shower to the still lake,
I avoid meeting myself on the foreground.
If I ever crossed path in the middle,
I would be non-existent;
none of this would matter,
and there will never be my Sunday.

Sarah Radzi
In Between Four Walls,
19.08.2018,
01:56
WA West Aug 2018
Tantamount to the crawlspace where your emotions
are dissembled,
is the animalistic focus in your pointed gaze,
Sketchy eyed with jerky limbed motions,
As elusive as you are always around,
Or so it would seem,
Their eyes fall upon you,
no doubt,
You are a vision,
That I do not and have never questioned,
There is a fundamental lack of
hesitancy in your days,
lately you have looked let down,
Thinking of you,
occurs outside the restraints of time,
I would like to be everything with you.
Laura Aug 2018
Ever since we met
I haven't gone a day
Without loving you
I haven't known a day
Without your name
Written all over my ******* heart
It didn't take me long at all
To figure out that
You're kind of the one
The one I want to be with
You let me paint your nails
You think it's cute when I chow down on a burger
You tell me you love me when you're deep inside of me
You do face masks with me
You say my snort is adorable
And it all feels different
When I tell you I love you
It all feels true
For once in my life
Compared to all those times
In the back of my impala
When I said it just to get them to ***
So I could go home already
No this time it means something
And I've meant it since day one
When I said it in the laundry room
You looked back and smiled
While I blushed up a storm
The hurricane hit me hard
And changed my life forever
Original:
Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.


Our version:
Monday’s child will be a superhero – ABIGAIL
Tuesday’s child never gets a zero – JULIA
Wednesday’s child loves to smile – ASHLEY
Thursday’s child is kinda wild –
Friday’s child is so nice and likes to play –
Saturday’s child is true and won’t betray –
And the child born on Sunday, so happy, –
Is an angel with a great personality. –
I wrote this with my girls (7 and 9), and they had a lot of fun. I just love writing things with them, it always captures that childlike spirit of fun that just makes me smile.
I wake up wishing to go back to bed.
Wishing I was following my dreams instead.
Praying to be on the right path.
Always in the mood, high like an aircraft.
War planes somedays
Other like air balloons good company on a sunday.
I Dont really have notes for this one
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