Sundays are always cloudy,

their gray fogs an eternal omen to Mondays. 

Nobody cares about the weather on Mondays.

The rain pelts your back all Tuesday long,

just to flood the back of your head and snap half your brain like the great Titanic. Wednesdays, the air tastes saccharine with achievement, 

yet soured by the biting reality of two more days.

Thursday is humid and solitary.

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How can I cope with this devil on my shoulder, The heat is on but its making me colder, When I was younger it hoped I’d grow older, Started off small now it’s heavier than a boulder, 

You say I’m fine well I’m sick in the head, You say I‘ll cope well I’m sick of this mess, I don’t know how long I can stick with this stress, If it was my way then I would’ve writ this in red, 

I’m go...

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