Sunday morning. Stale whiskey on the breath, a bloodshot stare fixed on the ceiling, and the suffocating realization that another week has slipped away.
This is the quiet confession of a man trapped between the crushing weight of his unfulfilled ambitions and the vast, hollow echo of a life lived entirely inside his own head.
One Sunday morning, still in bed
Eyes red, drunk till the tip of my head
Could not stand up, pretended to be dead
Had to get that promotion, had to date that brunette
Bought her roses, they were red
Thinking what to tell her, before she said...
One Sunday morning, still in bed
The city hummed while I lay instead
A city of no hearts, or so I said
I dreamed of roads I hadn't tread
Of lives unlived that lay ahead
The years went by, though little changed
Outside, the world; inside, my head...
One Sunday morning, still in bed
Eyes red, drunk till the tip of my head
I stopped playing dead
And I woke up from my slumber, mostly dead
Or was I actually dead?
What did this poem make you feel? What was that one specific emotion it stirred up inside you, and could you relate to the heavy thoughts and silent pressures expressed here? Let me know in the comments below.
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