You Can't Write a Poem About Mondays

Fridays mornings bring hope and rejoicing at the thought of the end,

Of release from the various prisons that hold you,

Of evasion from responsibilities and obligations,

Of a good excuse to sleep past noon and wear chic outfits of sweats and tees.

But Sunday nights bring the Sunday Blues,

The dread of facing tomorrow and the continuation of the endless days of work.

The horror of waking up early, rising from bed like some dark monster

Whose only sustenance is a mug of hot coffee.

As you walk, you drag your feet, thinking forlornly of the soft bed you left behind.

The earth spins sluggishly as you rub your clouded eyes.

All the possible if only’s race through your head maddeningly, just out of grasp

They slip through your fingertips like water, and you wish the bus ride would never end.

But suddenly, all too quickly,

You are here.

The soaring, magnificent skyscraper that touches the outermost reaches of the atmosphere seems to glare down at you disapprovingly;

You are late.

You run as quickly as you can, like a burglar from a searchlight, wishing for more time.

Finally, you sit in your gray cubicle wondering how far away Friday is.

And so the earth spins on, never changing, never ending

And the cycle repeats,

Of Mondays and Fridays and Sunday Blues

And no matter how much you want it to change

It never will.

And the gray world is reborn in the end and dies at the beginning

And everybody knows that everybody hates Mondays.