"sundaze" poems
Sundays are my favourite days,
Beirut mornings to coax a smile
Get drunk and dressed with
Mr. Vernon; light a cigarette
And laugh at the irony
This Sunday though,
I am in a sundaze;
with no full moon to look upon
And only a mournful quarter
rotted with black cloud
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
The sunday quiet eases my mind,
a welcome vacancy of thought spirals.
In the distance a soft tune plays,
music spins in and out of my space.
It fills my limbs from head to toe
spouting from my lips, my eyes, my-
my music spins me into a daze
and trance unlike a hypnotic phase.
The sun beams high from its sunday spot,
the clouds are fluffy, light, and white.
And as the music blooms to peak,
the lapping blue envelopes my cheeks.
I float in absence of the my weight,
absolute serenity claims a stay.
Its clear blue sheen brings peace to mind,
like I could drown here and still not die.
Its weightlessness drenches my hair,
yet when i shift into the air,
the weight is heavier so much there.
I intake life and fall to the floor,
the most abnormal experiences
are felt under this blue shore.
My body trembles as reality shakes,
my breathe is leaving,
to the surface or to a calmer place?
A disturbance by the door I hear,
gentle giggles of my sisters near,
I gasp for air as the bubbles explode,
This sunday warmth is toxic yet not loathed.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
Of bright mornings
and scorching beds
Your body lays
unmoved and spent
Rarely do you stay for coffee
but it's past 8 am
and still
you're here beside me.
Nothing is more amazing
than Sunday mornings spent
with your happy, sleeping face
nestled against my *******
- PMT
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
In your most vulnerable moments you are just a child that wants to be held..and rubbed softly while you listen to the familiar sound of my voice echoing in this quiet room. This moment of sincerity is a paradise we share and we choose to let each other in..but never in too deep cause once you go to far you never come back and we’re too young to be planting seeds of oak trees. They say the deepest connection is when we connect the spaces between our knees but you and I know that’s not the truth..cause we’ve had love for souls with connections that ran so deep our hearts wouldn’t beat whenever they weren’t around to make us smile ever so endlessly. We joke about being the club of the dead quite often..and since winter came all you’ve done is cry & cough and I find myself here humming with a stick of glue incase you fall apart. I’ve been there before, so I know exactly how you feel..the illusions..sleepless nights..and the non-stop drinking until the pain stops cause who gives a **** about a hangover when your desire is to stop the pain. So when you call and tell me to come over and your humming “I’m so sick of love songs”, I’ll be there with a bottle of jack daniels before the songs even over. No, I never sign up to be in the competition to be the somebodies only one..I just love the moments spent listening to a woman sincerely talk about what makes her mind run…and since I’ve seen it before I don’t have to look twice to see the lights in your eyes when our conversations hit all kinds of topics & shoot past this physical plane filled with faulty materials and plastic people with filtered smiles on their faces. Sometimes I wish their were two of me so you’ll have someone to take you to all those places..but theirs only 1 and this moment won’t last forever so the night is what we make it
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC