sunday nights are my own.
old music in the corners of my mind
pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems
two hundred and seventy-two
little golden lights, 4 walls
that mirror my soul.
the embrace of the quiet
the freedom in the stillness.
last breath before monday, its grip
so tight, so strangling. for now
i let go, i lean into the liberation
of being alone on a quiet sunday night.
alone, but never lonely
cliché, but remnant in my heart.
Comments
Sunday nights are when I cram last minute and try not to stay up too late 😅
So your Sundays nights sound a lot better, haha. Wonderful poem!
thankss!
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