Sunday mornings were made to wipe the 7 day slate clean.
If you've ever had a bad Saturday night, you know exactly what I mean.
Its 9 am as I open the blinds
The week starts fresh I leave the rest all behind.
One inebriated Saturday night
tricked me into thinking this one was looking right.
As I lay on my satin sheets.
Thinking the day might start of bleak.
I look ahead to what might be a great week.
I appraise the past deeds done in despondency.
Somehow I know this Sunday morning will liberate me.
My phone is ringing, it must be my moronic misconstrue.
Telling me what a great time and if I felt it too?
Taciturnity, bereaves my lips.
As if something is amiss.
This is a new day, a day to reconcile.
My Sunday mornings are a time of docile.
I pick up the pieces of a life yet learned.
And come to realize what I discern.
The day is calm and the mockingbird beckons.
Sun rays beaming down from heaven.
Yea my solecism is true.
But that doesnt mean my Sunday morning has to be blue.
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