Sunday always feels like the last day of the week
even though it’s the first
the predeccesor of what is to come as you carry on
through all of the days that you don’t want to live
working your way back to Friday
just so you can fall back into bed as you wait for Saturday
but Saturday is over so quickly
that it almost feels like Sunday.
I have been hard wired
to crave neglect
Programmed to apologize
when I’m being abused
From the first girl
that took the time to learn my name
To the last boy
that told me he loved it
All I’ve known
And when I’m finally free of it
It has me running back
to the same dull pain
I’ve been forced to love.
I don’t know who I am
and I don’t know where you are
but I’m calling for you in the dark
hoping that you can hear me
while you’re calling back
wishing that I would listen.
And we both stand, watching
a vicious cycle of tearful apologies
and broken promises
pounding on the only door
that stands to keep us apart.
The door that I used
to lock you out.
I wonder if you think that I
am as witless as I feel,
falling to my knees and begging you for forgiveness
never realizing that when we first met
you had given to me all of the blatant certainty
I would ever need.
I wonder too, If I’ve ever made you as happy
as you have made me,
but then I think, “Of course,
there was I time that I must have.”.
Even though, I know I haven’t.
That realization, although sober, biting,
has never, will never
stop me from trying.
Maybe that is just another facet
that makes us different,
but more likely,
it is the only thing about the two of us
that is the same.
Everything about me
makes me long for you,
and every long day
makes me miss those fleeting moments
we shared together.
Every tear I shed
of the ones you wiped from my face
and as the pain gets a little worse
I try not to remember
how you made it better.
Every word I write
is pushing you away
so for now
I’ll be the one thats new
and you can be weathered.
Hey, how have you been?
(I’ve missed you)
I’ve been good.
(I’m a mess)
Yeah, It’s been awhile.
(I’ve thought about you everyday)
What are you doing these days?
(Tell me you haven’t moved on)
Oh, that’s great.
Me? Yeah, nothing serious though.
(No, not since you)
Yeah, it was good to see you too.
You know that feeling you get,
the one in math class when you’re solving problems
and the answers are coming so easily to you
that you have to stop and think,
“I must be doing this wrong.”?
Yeah that one.
Thats exactly how I feel
every time I finish a poem,
but then I remember that writing is subjective
and there really isn’t a right or wrong way to do it.
YoU CAn WritE AnYTHinG aNd aNyWAy yOU WanT.
No one can tell you it’s wrong because it will always be right to someone
even if thats just you.