9 September 2012
Sunday morning breaks like a back,
Like a twenty-foot wave,
Beating my body to
A sand-worn and battered heap;
Can I not have peace,
Can I not stay asleep?
Must I wake into the cold sun,
And the damp of this
Summer-Autumn day,
And leave all hope and dreams
Behind upon my pillowcase?
The emptiness of Sunday tips
Me forwards into action,
Before another expanse of
An empty week gapes
Like a canyon.
Sunday is for those with families
And friends and children,
To squander their hours on
Love and happiness, socialising,
To give their lives some meaning,
It is not a day for the likes
Of me, those with a void where
The fleeting kiss of human relationships
Should wedge the gap between
Scraping out an existence
And remembering to breathe,
On Sunday there is too much leniency,
To sit and watch and do nothing,
It is not acceptable to work, rush,
Over think, I should be content
To simply be.
Bring on Monday.
Sunday • Opuss № I