sunday nights

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

the embrace of the quiet

the freedom in the stillness.

last breath before monday, its grip 

so tight, so strangling. for now

i let go, i lean into the liberation

of being alone on a quiet sunday night.

alone, but never lonely

cliché, but remnant in my heart.

elise.writer

VT

16 years old

More by elise.writer

  • fragile foundation

    every twist of inadequacy's blade

    (each one worse than the previous)

    fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

    carried in. did you hate me?

    you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.

  • january to july

    in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.

    i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion

    pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out