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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
Woody Oct 2018
In Tennessee where the liquor’s
tax free, the pool halls never close
except on Sundays, until one or so
and you don’t have to look too hard
for a tavern where the music wears sharp
knuckles, and the dancers all dance in
sharp toed boots, you know, I’ll never
leave here where the Creek flows so cold
and sings solo to the chalk-white moon
so full and low, it makes me want to break a rack and shoot without a scratch, an
Eight Ball in my right side pocket, my cue
a rolled up tight Ben Franklin or two. Yo.
Johnny walker Dec 2019
Sunday mornings even
as kid I never like them seems so much a dead
day to me far too
That awful feeling of
a Sunday morning descending like a cloud
of gloom all around
Potentially blocking out what could be a good day but turns out a dead day I just hate anything to do with Sunday
Nigdaw Jul 2019
I remember Sundays when it rained
my father
downstairs playing the piano
and me
up in my room staring out the window
wondering where all this time was going
I wanted to be there
discovering whatever you discovered
outside the back door, over the fence
past my school to the main road
people were busy going places
rushing noisily, getting in each other's’ way
shouting obscenities, gesticulating
everything so important
they had to arrive when it happened
my father played on into the afternoon
as mum baked cakes and complained
there were a thousand and one jobs
he’d promised to do
only now I realise that he
lost in music, was trying to escape
all those people rushing nowhere, shouting
getting in each other's’ way
he had been out there and understood
just how futile life could be.
Johan Nel Jan 2019
I wish to impart my mind on a page
When I observe the stars and the sea
Then think I of the world as a cage
And dream I to live boundlessly

Free of convictions to which I sang along
Untethered from the maternal cord
Shed I this skin, what was right is now wrong
No need to preach anymore of the Lord

Sundays are for my heathen's slumber
The world, undiscovered possibility
Books will I read, absent of number
And live as Observer with no eternity
© Johan Nel 2019.01.22 21:52
claire elizabeth Jun 2019
i can't believe i have to ******* leave you
i wanna cancel all my plans and stick to you like a fly on the wall
listening for words that mean you'll miss me as much as i know i'll miss you
so i make private playlists and cry on sundays and just hope that i make you fall in love with me before september comes
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
We watched you sail; take to the sea in a rubber boat.
Take to troubled waters; and do your best to stay afloat.
So many lost souls, in the deep blue Aegean Sea.
The waters gently whisper, come and stay with me.

And as you slip below the waves; we wave goodbye;
It’s money verses conscience and so goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Then every eye watched you struggle to the shore,
We watched you knock, and knock, and knock, upon closed doors.

Another immigrant “a slave to freedom”
England’s money verses conscience; except on Sundays!
We may offer prays as an act of sympathetic generosity,
But won’t shoulder the burden like Simon!
So let’s not rock the boat!
I wrote this after watching thousands of terrify Syrian refugees struggling to cross the Aegean Sea away from tyranny only to find their neighbors pushing them back
Mr Quiet May 2019
It's been too long
I long for you when I'm alone
And even if I'm not
I know it's not that easy to move on

It's been too long
I was so slow and now you're cold
You pretend like I don't exist
You act like we've never met at all

You win, I miss you.

Can't take it anymore
I know you hate me for all I know
You don't want to see me
Can't stand to see me at all

It's been a year and we're still playing games
Ignoring each other as we pass by the hallways
Now I think of the days where we chat all day, all night and still had our ways
Our jokes, our laughs, our nights at Sundays.

You win, I miss you.

I'm moving on
But it takes so long
I'm moving on
Yet I still play our songs
******* why am i like this
Terri Sep 2018
If love is a religion,
And you're the God
I'd probably be an atheist

If the things you say
Are holy gospels
I'd probably burn them to hell

You're on my mind again
Attending your company
Like mass' on sundays
But I'd rather be at home
Rather than to worship
Your hypocriteness
The things you do
Doesn't match the things you say
You've made oaths, vows, promises
But that's at least what I think
You broke every single one of them
And it's ****** up, it's ******* me up;
You split my heart
Like how moses split a river
Crossing it quietly
But when you crossed
You left an unholy mark
Making it bleed, making me hurt
I have no idea what I did to you
But next time I see you,
No more, I wont;
I wont worship you no more.
Meet Mar 2018
Women were mentioned as
God's most beautiful creation!
But seeing some of their situations today
Seems all is left is Just the cremation

Today's world is
faster than ever
And without feminine
It cannot last forever

Why is that so hard for a girl
to live on her own?
She's not a toy to play with whenever you want
& make her moan!

Pity those who think
women are to only produce a baby!
Give her your faith and support
She'll become one you hadn't ever imagine her to be

And **** those who calls a girl *****
& fix her rate
After realizing the fact that
She's not in their fate

Everyday some monster **** a woman ruthlessly
What do we do; Just look the other way
Hundreds of women are harrased and killed everyday
I wish there too could be some sundays!

Just when she finds a staircase
to reach to her crown
Why she also finds thousands?
Eagerly waiting to pull her down

They have potential to rule the world
They are not destined to be nun
They can show the world
Why should boys have all the fun!
Wish there too could be some sundays!
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
I leave it to you with fondness.

How you used to fill it on those lazy Sundays
with fresh blooms from the neighbor's garden.

You would blame the kids from across
the street and we'd laugh
as their dad chased them around the yard
with a belt.

And when they would die, as they were wont to do,
you'd replace them with your paranoid
king's fiddlesticks.

He'd come out of the castle in a dither.

But you always convinced him
it was the handiwork of little green men
--who looked very much like
the kids from across the street.

Ah, remember the fire and how we danced?

Yes, my dearest captive
--the face that launched a thousand ships--

I leave it to you with only the warmest sentiments.

Love, Paris.
Lovely Nobody Oct 2018
I remember when you were my friend,
Our talks would never seem to end.
We'd laugh together, we'd cry together,
We'd mourn all the losses together.
You were the sunshine of my Sundays
And my best mate on the life's way.
But, guess the road ended abrupt,
And I didn't see that you were so corrupt.
You left me on the broken road,
The burden we shared was now all my load.
It as painful without you by my side,
It wasn't fun even in the joyous ride.
And guess I learned to live with the pain,
Hiding my tears in the falling rain .
Now the memory is dull and the pain is numb,
And I wonder how could I be so dumb!
That I never saw you leave my side ,
And how you disappeared with time and tide.
But I promise to have you in my heart .
You and your friendship like crust and ****,
Sweet at the top and hard at the base,
And Oh! how could I forget your lovely face .
And this is how our story ends,
'Cause we both are no more friends.
you said "you can count on me"
but, when I  did , you weren't there
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Ever since a child
I've hated Sundays
always a dead day
nothing ever to
The day last of the
weekend before
going back to
Nothing on the telly
Usually wet and
miserable, mum busy
doing dinner dad
fast asleep In his
Even at 65 years of age
still I hate Sunday although
shops open cafe's to me It
still has dead day
Sunday blues even now at 65 a dead day
feeling empty lost
Robert C Ellis Oct 2019
When I was nervous in church my
Stepmother told me the ***** keys of A and E
were God,  Breathing.  Of course, she confessed
She hated me and I imagined all of these
Faceless bishops writing the Benedictary we deceived our Sundays
Reading from cheap pulp pages because if Belief
were wings I would fall from the nest, a delicacy.
My father ushering families to their seats.
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