Sunday.

S U N D A Y 

Sunday comes with the finest stretches,

With legs that run down the side of your glass

The same way you made it through this week,

Again, yet this time, you almost feel bad

Because you’ve been foggy, been buried in the trenches 

Desperate for help but too stubborn to ask 

So you soldiered on through your winning streak

But in the end you had given way more than you had. 

So Sunday rolls around, you try to catch some rest 

Last night dries inside you and the morning comes fast 

Your head hurts from the screaming and your apology is weak 

Since this time you’re not sure how you made him so sad.

It’s been months since you’ve cried outside of their clutches, 

They’ve owned every tear and forbid time to pass

But the rain washed you over, they’re not what you seek;

And finally you’re crying in a new pair of hands. 

It’s human, profoundly, to sink in our messes 

If we question our worth, we will sleep in the grass 

But to overcome is how nature, historically, can speak

For you must brave the tide to get back to the sand.

ariana tibi