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.