Sunday night is an imposter,
The kind that writers wearing bandanas foster.
Taking notes on how the sugary sweet sodas he sips,
Is a metaphor for nourishment escaping our collective lips.
Sunday night's when writers don't work,
So they try poetry for a quirk.
On Monday you wake up early ,
To chase your horses in the mist, ever so unclearly.
Tuesday was blue, Thursday was push and shove,
Then came Friday and you still weren't in love.
.
.
Sunday night and emotions, just don't go hand in glove.
Sunday nights are not to be trusted for emotions,
There are so many places you would rather be,
So many people you would rather be and be with.
Yet you find yourself blinded by the blue light,
Of your computer screen, bandana on nightstand,
Writing this poem.
