I've realized that nothing ever is
Finished.
Confectus.
Nothing.
We simply abandon it,
Whatever it is.
Perfection is never achieved
So we give up the fight before we just
Go stark raving mad.
On a smaller scale.
My schoolwork is never going to end.
Nothing is ever fully finished.
Essays and notebooks
And latin poems and things
That are being push-pushed into
Tomorrow.
I am not a fan of letting days spill
All over each other.
I prefer a fresh start each time the sun rises.
No such luck for me, it would appear.
I've already got a list of the things "To-Do"
For tomorrow, Tuesday.
Another Tuesday
In a long string of days
That may as well be as bland
As any given Tuesday.
It's a faceless day, really.
Used to recuperate from Mondays,
Which nobody likes.
There is no committee called
"The Committee to Save the Mondays"
No club for Monday Enthusiasts.
The hatred of Mondays is something
I believe we can all get behind,
A universal scapegoat.
I'm sure many a world problem
Happened on a Monday.
Cuban Missile Crisis?
Probably began on a Monday.
JFK's assassination?
Monday, no doubt.
Watergate?
Totally a Monday sort of thing.
(Note: It took reading the textbook, watching a video and calling my genius grandfather for me to figure out what the hell Watergate actually was.
As to its importance, I am still somewhat unawares.)
You know something?
The more time I have to think,
The stranger my thoughts become.
Like the one that took root over the weekend.
Let's go to college together, shall we?
I can say no more on this, really.
I'd give away too much.
But we ought to.
How swell it would be.
Sometimes,
For just one infinitesimally small moment in the course of things,
You get this pained expression,
You look utterly miserable.
You've deflated somehow,
For that one quick instant
And then it is gone.
It's unnerving,
When you look that way,
Because I never know what is going on in your mind.
What thoughts possess you to look so?
Darling, I'm curious, are you alright? Truly and honestly?
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