I hate Sundays
Hate—a strong word I know
Everyone looks forward to weekends right?
Well not me
For someone who drowns out their loneliness
By getting lost in the crowd
And unnecessary conversations at work
Sundays don't bring peace
Sundays are loneliness
Sundays are just hours of waiting
For Monday again so I could
Lose myself at work
The cycle is endless
They say I'm strange
I mean what do you need when
You can do whatever you want
Whenever you want and
However you want
Well that's what I thought I want
Don't get me wrong
I'm at the happiest point in my life
Than I ever was but
Somehow I hate Sundays
Because Sundays for me
Are broken relations
And estranged families
And lost friends
Or drifted hobbies
Just empty — sheer empty
And yep
It's nice to pretend
That the weekend is finally here but
I hate Sundays
YOU ARE READING
MUSINGS OF A SOLIVAGANT
PoetryJust like her solivagant mind wanders and the soft vernalagnia colors her cheeks, rosy - poetry swells from her inside. What her camera captures, spins words of hope and despair in her. Where the heart bleeds on to the paper, there springs poetry...
