Sunday

Sunday

A Poem by yashsickle
"

Work in progress

"
Satellite helmets sear through dreams- 

while bland popsicle sticks furiously slur distraught pianos.

Clattering of open windows ring through closed minds. 

Moonlit memories break out in a sweat, frantically dashing through the fields. 

Inexperience, the weapon every child wields.

Maniacal movements of tribal celebration, followed by Sunday night procrastination. 

Eyeballs, Eyeballs, flood the halls and classrooms- 

to peek on mondaine blessings of future sherlocks.

To seek the rare blessing of medical warlocks.

I collapse on efforts while shaking the hand of opportunity

Burning city of empathy glares at me through the blaze

Welcoming it, I stay there for what seems like days. 

Nonsense they speak, even the brightest of days burns to a bleak. 

Nonsense they seek, finger tips wreaking of beauty and cigarettes.

Windowsills of childhoods begin to chip.

No more coming home with a busted lip.

No more coming home.

Solving mysteries alone.

Paying for the phone. 

Sidewalks upon sidewalks careen.

Monochrome vision doesn't seem so obscene.

I can't go home, I can't go back to where I've been. 






© 2012 yashsickle



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Reviews

Wow! This is very intriguing! Every line is so thought-provoking. I cannot pretend to understand it all, but the images are no less powerful. Interesting write...I will be coming back to this.

Posted 5 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

yashsickle

5 Years Ago

Thank you! Is there anything you would change?
Caitlin Lea

5 Years Ago

"I collapse on efforts while shaking the hand of opportunity"

This line is a little bit.. read more

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258 Views
1 Review
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Added on November 12, 2012
Last Updated on November 29, 2012
Tags: Sunday, Work, life, Home, growing up, school, waking up, a day, regrets

Author

yashsickle
yashsickle

Ann Arbor, MI



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