"weekdays" poems
I don't know since when.
This diet has began
and gone extreme.
There was once
a reasonable aim.
But a new one comes up
whenever the old was
claimed.
Crosses over the weekdays.
Tell me how far I have gone.
But the crosses goes on,
They linger far too long.
I was counting on my calories.
Eating portions from my lunchbox.
No more than
a quarter
I couldn't stop.
I'm sorry.
But I'm not.
Led by starvation
my ultimate downfall.
I was saving all the calories.
For a binge at a time.
Keeping in my desires.
Till it's time to dine.
No my throat is on fire.
It's getting tire and tire.
So I kept eating and
release as
I violently *****
This is all too
disgusting.
dreadful.
disgusted am I.
Nothing have I eaten for breakfast,
lunch, tea and dinner.
Spooning out from my
kiwifruit.
No one could save me.
From my one and only solitude.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
I am a Transgender Citizen - ( An American Citizen )
I am a Transgender MTF - ( With Opinion's )
I am a Transgender Female - ( With Feeling's )
I am a Transgender Girl - ( With Emotion's )
I am a Transgender Woman - ( With Love )
I am a Transgender Christian - ( With Faith )
I am a Transgender Parent - ( Of 2 Beautiful Yellow Labrador Retriever's )
I am a Transgender Friend - ( Too Many People )
I am a Transgender Sister - ( Too My Many Sister's )
I am a Transgender Sister - ( Too My Many Brother's )
I am a Transgender Daughter - ( Who Currently Isn't Loved By ? )
I am a Transgender Person - ( Who Vote's )
I am a Transgender LBGTQ - ( Who Accept's ALL )
I am a Transgender , Who has too Hide , Because most of Society
Say's they love Unconditionally , But Only if - I / We / Us - are who , They say We are . And "" NOT "" who We say We are
GOD - Created Me & You & Them & Yet "" ? ""
They & Sometimes even Us Judge each other "" ? ""
And yet GOD clearly Tells Us , "" NOT to JUDGE "" each other
But too Instead "" LOVE "" one another
By day I am a Person , I do not wish too Be
On weekdays I am a Person , I do not wish too Be
By Night time I am the Girl , I want too Always Be
On Weekends I am Mostly the Girl , I want too Always Be
And so You all can "" CLEAR'LY "" see
I am A Transgender Person / Female
Named Stacie Leelah Cheyenne
I AM in fact "" ME ""
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
I began to notice the
Fade.
Blotched ink, frayed seams
yet those who can't see
can't care
It was most familiar to a weary box
Which spent weekdays and nights
Traveling
To warm faces and comfort Sundays
I struggled when the
torch of permanent portions was passed to
me. Each word felt unworthy and full of
stain
I always strived for
realism
I used to clutch the cloth
carefully folding and unfolding
fearing the sendoff, knowing the return
would become rare
If at all.
it was a pricked finger and
remembrance
It was right to hideaway
At the time
I crumbled under the stage lights
The audience was expecting
More
All I could provide was
Myself
And like a spoiled child
I still pout
Demanding fame under my demanded
Street Lamps
Faded
Donated
What is, is
But. I do remember. Even if you figure the pants don't fit
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
the good things in life seem to stay;
like the color yellow, or a warm summer's day
waking up early, running barefoot in grass
feeling the morning dew brush past
hearing the twinkle of an ice cream truck
if you go, you'll catch it, with luck
eating a popsicle as the sun beats down
riding a bike through a small playground
when dusk comes, once again
we're swimming at night and playing with friends
lighting sparklers that shine brighter than stars
popping cap guns you could hear from afar
running barefoot right down the street
giving the neighborhood dog a treat
taking polaroids like the pictures will stay
but lost them then, by the next summer day
watching as fog rolls slowly ahead
the sun goes down, so time for bed
excitement and thrill, time for a sleepover
the day, for now, will never be over!
karaoke on beds at the crack midnight
crashes of thunder, scary stories, and fright!
still, pretty soon, we get used to it
or in the summer, it all happens quick
never sleeping, don't want it to end
even though there's the weekdays and weekend
glowing lights hang above the bed
sleepy eyes remind us dumb things said
summer, now, doesn't last forever
even if we must change the weather
we must savor it, you and me
and kiss summer hello thrillfully!
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Weekends are supposed to be great
and weekdays a sore.
But lately I find my work a good chore.
For all the late weekend nights that we had, to all the bad coffee we always grab.
I want to forget how good those conversations made me feel.
Cause now every weekend I feel very ill.
And I so look forward to sleeping dead tired over a day's hardwork.
For forgetting you, me and the memories that always lurk.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
It’s early Friday afternoon and,
over plates of greasy spoon dinner,
the musician and the businessman
repeat their weekly ritual.
The businessman has his problems at home
and spills his guts to his musician friend.
“It’s been a real long time coming,
but she’s still been such a bitter *****
They’ve met this way since
their college days and nights
spent studying the bottoms
of whiskey bottles. And, as usual,
the businessman’s hair sits sprawled
on his head like a rag, and his tie
is loosened. The musician doesn’t understand
divorce: “You look like hell.
You know, if you need a place to stay,
Helen and I and the boy
can always make some room for you.”
They light a pair of cigarettes and wait
for a waitress to kick them out.
Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd
the musician and his band play
his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger
of the Duke. His critics—
and he has many—
write that his jazz sings
the inescapable *********** of suffering
through the life of every oblivious body,
which makes the musician’s music
sound more like the blues
than jazz. But it’s jazz all the same
and perhaps it was the intensity
of the growling bass that shot
spirits down the throats in the audience,
reeling drunk in time to the beat
of the musical suffering.
The weekdays die and it is Friday again.
He has a big view of midtown,
the businessman, and though the window the falling
sun horizons over his socked toes,
parked on his desk in triumph over
all those stockholders. It’s a pain
to lose your family,
but the businessman puts on
a good face, and drinks.
This Friday, the musician and the businessman
are not in the mood for talking.
But a scotch thrown down,
and the two are tighter than
thieves.
The businessman complains of life at home
and the musician’s eyes cross.
That night, the musician skips his performance.
His wife cries in their bed,
shuddering with worry and asking him
what makes him so distant? she asks—
it’s a mystery even to himself.
He is sweating whiskey—
which suits him fine—
and he spends his night on the bridge.
One week later and it is Friday, finally.
Today, the businessman will see
his children at his former home
for the last time for a handful of months
at best. The musician has not been home
for three days. He stays at a friend’s apartment,
puts on his ***** blazer
and a record of the Duke’s
before he throws himself down the airshaft.
The businessman jumps on the 5:44
out of town and calls his friend the musician
to cancel their usual Friday meeting,
but his phone keeps ringing,
ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
A four-year-old was perched in front of
a boxy TV with eyes only open to
sugar-coated Cheerios and 80’s Transformer heroes
on the screen.
Fast forward to age
thirteen where she flipped through
dusty photography with
eyes searching
for substance
to prove reality from almost-forgotten dreams.
Scrapbook memories aren’t
all that she sees
because,
honestly,
she loses things.
Summer Saturdays and
Fall Fridays and
Winter weekdays spent too wrapped up in her
own head to notice, silently, spring rising
from its deathbed.
Honestly, she loses things.
She
loses
things that should be important
and real, but all she can feel is
the guilt of lost
and faded photography.
Scrapbook memories fabricate times of
color and scent and sound,
of spilled milk and Diet Coke,
of words too far gone to seep from
pen to page because
honestly,
she loses things.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
A generation navigating illusionment:
I am one. Excavation; i sift. Shaking
a plastic basket.
Round - and channel mouths spout
a wire crosshatch. I
Tap
Against
My palm.
Fine flour lands on the counter and
In my head I listen to the same songs
because I already know the words.
I look for a truth outside my mind
because on weekdays I tell myself
I’m not worth knowing.
How do you stop hating yourself
When you hate yourself because
You hate yourself?
When I slide my hand across the counter,
White flour mist puffs and I listen:
Mac Miller’s alive. He said he’s
surviving on ***** almonds, and granola bars.
Grasped in some five fingers
A thin red handle.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
*The total number of days between Thursday, June 17th, 1993 and Wednesday, June 17th, 2015 is 8,035 days .
This is equal to 22 years,excluding the end date, so it's accurate if I am measuring my age in terms of days, or the total days between my birth date and my birthday. But if for the duration between my birth date and my birthday, today,then it is actually 8,036 days.
In terms of workdays and weekends, there are 5,739 weekdays and 2,296 weekend days.
If I include today Jun 17, 2015 which is a Wednesday, then there would be
5,740 weekdays and 2,296 weekend days including both the starting Thursday and the ending Wednesday.
8,035 days is equal to 1,147 weeks and 6 days .
The total time span from 1993-06-17 to 2015-06-17 is 192,840 hours.
This is equivalent to 11,570,400 minutes
Further more 8,035 days are also equal to 694,224,000 seconds.
The nano seconds, the micro seconds, the minutes, the hours and the days have flowed by like water along a river, years have dissolved in thin air, going just before I seize the moments,such moments have escaped my grasp with the sands of time but there are things that in changing remain constant, the memories, the love, the sadness, the heartbreaks, the football team, the journey through and through and most importantly you my family and friends. I have this special day every year which I always use to thank all of you for bearing with me ,while I grew from that little boy whose loose shoe brought down the wall clock in primary seven while he was kicking chalk and consequently cried his way home contemplating the explanation for what had happened,to the young man dreaming of becoming a re-known Author and poet. From the lad who had to cram words to throw vibes, to one who hopes his words shall be used someday to tear down fortresses and conquer hearts.
Thank you all, I'm so lucky to have you and will always try to keep you all around as long as try can. Love you :) xxxxxxxxxx*
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Today’s slow cooked ragu
has a lot of familiar ingredients
but spun a little different
The devil in the pork grease
gave me such a wink
I lost my place in the recipe
Liberal with salt, chili flakes,
zest and anything,
this quixotic cook’s hand
throws much freer than weekdays
I only lack the fat slack
of pappardelle for this,
as they were out at the supermarket
Penne will have to do
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 8:31 AM UTC
because i know.
you're better than drunken weekdays,
and ******* lines on the bathroom counter,
because you can can flourish faster
than the marijuana plant in the corner.
but what is live fast
die young
if your summer nights aren't filled with dreams
because the alcohol clouds your vision.
you're worth more than one night stands
and that cigarette between your teeth
but satisfaction is an inadequate mask for need,
and desire just gets us into trouble.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
Monday Morning
chugs out of the
Harbor of Weekdays
like a leaking
garbage barge
sailing into
ominous seas,
bound for that
remote
but redeeming
rendezvous
with a beaming
Friday
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
Knock Knock. Oh dope!
Someone's tapping on my door!
Knock Knock. **** yeah!
Nobody comes here anymore.
Knock Knock. This is great!
Pure excitement can't be ignored!
Click Swing. I sing "what's up," just to find:
A girl, in another world, knocking on my neighbor's door
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
My heart's ablaze
I'm so amazed
cluttered in clichés
in a daze
I'm dismayed
too many long driveways
Life's fortes
as we graze
upon the gaze
in a haze of haze
trapped inside this maze
our voices phase
into the next of days
Oh did we raise
with utter rephrase
glancing sideways
into stairways
how I hate your ways
as much as I hate causeways
too much decay
along the edgeways
inside the hallways
roadways
screenplays
my heart strays
on into Sundays
and Tuesdays
I hate the weekdays
they're gateways
into other days.
© 2012 Christina Jackson
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Will you marry me?
So that we could escape the Weekdays together?
And make love till we create little Weekends?
My sweet Friday Night?
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
I have a little secret
It’s about the place I work
I’m supposed to be a teacher
But a school’s not where I lurk
I spend my weekdays cooking
Serving people tea
I’m not a chef though, in a classroom’s
Where I’m meant to be.
I think if I fry one more egg
Fill one more sugar ***
Spend one more minute worrying
If the ****** teapot’s hot
I might just lose the will to serve
At least the will to fry
I’m so tired of the ‘thanks so much’
The ‘have a good day’ lie
But please do not misunderstand
I’m not ungrateful for my job
It’s just not what I trained for
Being tied up to a hob
I expected to be in a class
Full of eager faces
Whose imaginations I could take
To so many different places
Instead I’m filling stomachs
Watching people eat and drink
I cook and serve, a faceless drone
So they don’t have to think
I know it’s not forever
This job I’ve grown to hate
One day I’ll take this apron off
Leave the café to its fate
The café will survive I’m sure
In fact I have no doubt
That’s why I don’t feel guilty
That I can’t wait to get out
The café will go on and on
Still serving up its tea
But next time that I see the place
What stranger will serve me?
Will I feel that they are in my place?
That their eggs are not quite right
That their service could be quicker
Their smile a bit more bright
Will I feel that I should tell them
How I once stood in their shoes?
How I thought if I fried one more egg
My sanity I’d lose
I think I’ll save those comments
Until she brings my tea
I won’t want to discourage her
While she’s still serving me
Besides she may enjoy her job
Who am I to wreck it?
Just because I missed the world
Of Austen, Keats and Beckett
She knows just where her future lays
I thought I knew the same
So why do I still keep a secret
Like it’s a source of shame?
I shouldn’t moan about my job
The wolf’s not at the door
It’s only bad days when I think
Just what did I train for?
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
Weekdays - we wear cattle trails into the green-space because
They taught us the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
They told us to stay in school.
We made ourselves fit into the small boxes with bunk beds
Like the kind we always wanted as kids.
Now we nod to the cement snaking around the dorms - residence halls -
and erode the grass underfoot, single-minded.
Weekends - we stumble-snake on sidewalks because
They give us a straight line to follow back to our boxes.
They told us to get involved in the community.
We let ourselves spill outside our borders and backpacks
Like our cattle trails will fill out overnight.
Now we laugh at the cement moving in waves - or staying still -
and breathe on the stars, multi-minded.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
Wishing to rewrite history so for once I would live life without stressful seconds
Without worrying about tomorrows and if my borrowed time is up
Or if this should be my last cup off hazy weekends and hangover weekdays
For the routine is played as if the DJ only has one song
One CD and the mix is just for me
As though that one CD is the expression of caged songbirds like me
Like this is the person I am meant to see, the tortured soul that is me can only be freedom
when I **** the seed that was embedded into me.
Into the blood I bleed I feed the monster as I pass the **** and tell the bartender one more for me…
Why can’t you see that this is the death of people like me?
For when songbirds are gifted free rage to sing the songs come out like these.
The songs sing of life unlived of time retracted from clipped wings
Just so I could be programmed to do similar things
Building a time machine so when the next songbird sings
No one will be able to clip her wings
For familiar eyes will be hypnotized for uniform leaves no room for originality
Copycats killing the freedom of the minority
Exterminate the majority and give me life
Or if not pass the knife for this uniform life is whipping out the songbirds rights
To give the world a song to sing and melody to remember
A chorus to write
With fingers of talent controlled by minds that wonder with imaginations to explore
The songbirds cry a song I wish not to hear anymore.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
Midnight back roads
Dark - insidious
Hungry for the intoxicated.
A monster comes out to
Prey on inebriated
Fellows.
Skiddings of tires,
Broken glass,
And red stains mark
Where the beast
Hunts
Road ****
A snack
and drivers
The main dish
The cycle is
Weekdays - innocents
Weekends - idiots
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
On weekdays,
privatised ******* trucks
disguise our secret fascinations
and shift the scraps
of our failed dinners
into piles of decomposing waste.
Welcome to the city,
there are buses on the hour.
Better grab a seat before
coffee stained tattoos
covered by sweaty rags
absorb up all the loneliness.
Where do they all go to?
Who eats all the bludgeoned bodies?
Oh, book the saturated dinner table tonight.
I feel like saturation.
In the weekends, somatic mutations
reveal themselves, for if I,
speak, like, I can speak,
then I am not speaking to anyone
save for the flowers. Oh, so
hurray, the garden blossoms again!
But I mean, in the end, I maintain I am
writhing like a centipede in a dryer,
tumbling between hot air, screaming
“Help me! Help me! Where
has the humanity gone?
I cannot even capitalise
first names! You must forgive
my lack of morals!”
“Hello”
“I am here!”
“Hello?”
“I am here!”
“Hello!”
“I am here!”
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
Once, a young fresher was reading the rules, and was more than perplexed at the place where they state
"All undergraduates, if they are Anglicans, must be in chapel each Sunday at eight."
Wracking his brains, he began a small rumour that spread through the town on the weekdays that followed; he
was not an Anglican, nor Nonconformist; his faith and religion was mere Heliolatry.
Saturday evening, our hero retired with a smile on his face and his bin at his door,
only to wake to a thunderous hammering, made by the porter, next morning at four.
Ah, how a little lie, told with great frequency, gains repercussions that no-one expects!
"Dawn's almost here, sir, the Chaplain expects you; go down to Main Court and you'll pay your respects."
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
Weekdays in school
Weekends at home
cold winter nights
when I'm alone
Good old friends
they meet their ends
their time is up
new friends
good luck
over-thinking all the time
an emotional rhyme
crying at night
yet laughing daylight
making these choices
hearing these voices
talking to myself
for I've got no one else
this little bit of pain
is what's driving me insane
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
gentle, but hesitant
he lifts the china to his lips,
and like the tea scolds his tongue,
he punishes himself.
at this time,10:30 a.m, weekdays
she brewed the same Seattle cinnamon
that now flooded his system with her memory;
through Puget Sound and
evaporated into constant cloudy skies that pour
rain into the mind of a man of many mistakes;
last of which being losing her and
the comfort she brought;
something as constant and
as taken for granted as
the weather.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
(I)
People used to light candles to ward off
prophesies such as this. Stopping, each
motherly representative, for 75 seconds
or less,
to tip match-spark to wax-thread
and hope for the best.
What ceremonial significance now
do we seek for to slow the approach
of what we know is waiting?
Oncoming march of death-knolls and unhappiness
bound up in silence
where
once we laughed uncensored at and for
the characters who spun throughout
this town, that school, the city, our lives.
All being, understandably, becomes
efficiently replaced with obvious simplicity.
From effortless performances
of what made our lives important
back in childhood years when living
was stable and guaranteed,
now to this mongrel era of constant migration
beckoning....
The familiar is no longer our youth’s
careless summer holidays.
The Familiar is now a land where
people don’t bother with any ideas
of an ideal existence beyond
what lottery tickets may bring.
Those who inhabit here are
more alerted to the purpose of lighting
coals in winter to shelter the children
and to keep the windows from cracking.
In summer find these same awaiting with
patient ears to heed any advice
which keeps them from going completely insane.
(II)
Go now, away
,begin
your quest, foolish schoolboy.
An entire adolescence’s
comeuppance is due.
Time now to seek recompense
for the years you waited
for anything significant to happen.
Time to seek girls with inviting eyes
and lilting vowels to offer favors to.
Abled with a catalogue of charmed
intoxicants. All softened by
a plentitude of weekdays waking
at three in the afternoon.
(Does “afternoon” exist in layman’s terms? Does
he simply made do with morning, day and night?)
Then on your flight make haste
to ensure your visit merely brief.
Like only one dimension of
your day-persona be a hawk
that delivers messages
back to the ivory towers of
new central HQ, while remaining
all cloak and whisper.
Messages from where people live
but no longer speak,
as result of an assigned sense
of failure,or complimentary
wrongdoings sought, what sorrow achieves.
Shattered lives, Ending dreams.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC