Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
English Jam Mar 2018
My golden years are a retrospective view
Doubtful, not sure, might be a last dance
One day I was gum-chewing with my Batman yo yo
Now my soul is rubber, and it leaks on the outside
Faded away from the youthful days
Once giddy pleasure
Now it’s all so

The teen lifestyle washed over within seconds
Sure it’s fun to friends
Entertaining to have enemies
But the squabbles and meanders slow you down
The pitiful liars and desperate seekers
Worship through blasphemy whatever they care
Limbs don’t respond
Thoughts and actions don’t line up

You see it for what it truly is
You’re in danger
of maturing

Forgotten and dazed
Sitting in a broken armchair
It's difficult seeing through the fogginess
Finding the missing hours
Difficult on a drowse

...I work only weekdays (don't we all)...
...Fantastic gatherings on Sundays (family days)...
...Jimi Hendrix, he's good (bit of an understatement, mate)...
....He's the kind of guy I wish I could...

Sky Yang Jan 20
                                                               ­                where are my clothes...

she wakes with a start,
your little robin and her
bare-breasted sunday morning

                                                        ­                       where. are. my clothes?

the sweet, white milk,
coffee barely missing her lips, i am pushed away yet
cascade down her sweet chin, neck, and out my window
onto the clothesline below

staining her
song: "Creep" by Radiohead
Just big enough for Sundays was Cyril
In his grey shirt and v neck sweater
Following his wife up the road, closely,
He helped carry the shopping from the red bus
The few minutes walk home;
Then as it was Sunday, chicken roast
Then meringue, fruit and cream.

The sitting room was comfy
With two brown velour chairs
Cyril and Joyce sat together
One in each chair to watch the box.

Love Mary ***
ᕼONEY Nov 2018
tomorrow you will carry my corpse
I won't say goodbye
Marya123 Feb 3
The scent of coffee lingers in the air
As the poet writes her heart out with flair
Caffeine gave her strength when life made her sad
Her words held her up when no one else had.
Robert G Page Mar 2015

hollow now my world has grown
with age that time has ****** on me.
from carefree childhood days i'd known,
from days of climbing in a tree.

from summer sunlit mornings
from sundays in the park.
i didn't see time's warnings
or see the sun grow dark.

i didn't see the stranger
who followed me one day.
i didn't sense the danger
as i went off to play.

with eager youth i left from home
the world was my shell.
i didn't see the stranger
who'd lead me to my hell.

i'd lifted weights with youthful ease
these weights now known as life.
did what i wanted as i pleased;
i took myself a wife.

and with my wife we had a child
we had a baby boy.
with carefree sundays in the park
he filled our lives with joy.

we watched his life as he grew strong
'til off to war he went.
he told his mom, "it won't be long
until my journey's spent."

and as his ship pulled from the pier
i saw the stranger's face.
with deep set eyes he blankly starred,
he seemed so out of place.

i felt as if i'd known this man
had known him all my life.
in parks where as a youth i ran
and when i met my wife.

it wasn't long our son had gone
my wife had passed away.
and in the war he followed her
just six months to the day.

old and lonely now i sit
and watch the children play.
on carefree sundays in the park
until that final day.

a day in which the stranger comes
and takes me to my rest.
to my loving wife and son
upon my final breath.
laura Oct 2018
Lazy sundays with the sad glow
there’s nothing to be sad about
except that it is all over
of course, my one day off vanished

outside blowing meager paychecks
emerald hillsides topped with leaves
abutting, climbing the city
plunged into histories soon gone

like the cold, gold sun gleaming off
the ribbon of the tarmacked road
we returned to from our escape
peering back through the car’s windshields
okay that last one was too pretentious and came off way wrong, so i deleted it. it’s dead now
Johnny walker May 12
As I awoke to Sunday morning  to me Sunday as always seemed a dead day nothing going on such a useless boring
For me a very lost and lonely day since Helen passed away I just hate Sunday mornings with
a passion
It's the one day I hate to wake upon with nothing going on and know where Inperticular to go Oh hohate Sunday
Sundays ever since a kidho always been a dead day
with nothing going on
and no where Inperticular
place Since Helen's been go
Azaria Sep 2018
enfolded in
your abundant legs
i find all the good
things etched
on the surface
of your
like an egyptian
relief painting
you are worth
enough tears
to flood the nile
and re-write the
way the marsh unfolds
like the way i found you:
verdant discoveries
on sundays
and new ways
to say shadane
pragmatic star girl
i add your name
to my mental thesarus
like a new favorite
adoring and
absorbing your
like second
come here often?
Alicia Dec 2018
the sunsets and the sun rises
creating each day and each night
and not once does it ask permission
the night will still be pink with light pollution
because of the single office illuminators,
found in every breathing building
the night shift family I never met,
will still glow behind little screens
or candle light thought bubbles and ink
the morning will still spill coffee all over him
but only on mondays, when he’s running late
mondays will always come
sunday mornings will still petition against alarm clocks
and sunday, hereself, will always win
it will rain and it won’t
either way, without me
temporary title
Compound theories appear in the sky
We are awakened to the sound of lullabies
Alibis drift into our skylines
We are mindful of a decline
Lions roar underneath the covers
We are uncovered in our clutter
Punctual demigods sit on their thrones
While other people suffer
We just wander all alone
Phone calls on Sundays
You return them all collect
Yet the edges of discovery
Are sometimes harder to suspect
You wore those
black pants
the ones that clung tight
to every inch of your
long love traps
and wrapped
your flawless form

And had that
belly button ring
(amongst other things)
all the assets
the ones that
made for a swarm
of willing lovers

I was younger
than the others
and eager to please you
...sure, i wanted to
but it was more
than a fancy or  
Sexfling type thing

You made music
sound better
and put hope in the letters
on the pages
of the songs
I wrote for

And I
was hope-less
I confess
as I envisioned the position
i would take
when I gave you a ring
(amongst other things)

How I
would fantasize
about you and me
too blind to see
  it was unwise
to trust undercover lust

You wore
those tight black pants
And I was a blue jean guy
You loved
Sitcoms on Sundays more
And made fun of me for
Fellini on Fridays

but mostly you
wanted to
be with a "real man" who
Would say you were worth fighting for
not a young bar musician
who sought love that
was worth writing for
Next page