This is not a Sunday

826 michigan, in all its glorious and playful efforts held a 4 day workshop on poetry forms from a variety of places. Wrote this one, a form that repeats the last line of the stanza (or in my case, toes the line of repetition). Don't remember what it's called or what the significance of it is. All in all this is just an excuse to not write a self-ethnography on my last week as a starving college student (probably won't explain that one further, so make of it what you will). Never really dabbled in poetry. Thought the ether was the best place to take a first whack. Hells yeah. Sorry to all those reading - the first time is bound to be messy :)

My bag today feels daintier

than normal toting commands

i'm well aware from my light load

that this is not a sunday

I trek across the paved campus

boots marking where i came from

i hate the snow but i have found

less so when it's a sunday

I find the nature of the day

tied to last night's reflections

so subsequently it would be

much better on a sunday

Today i'm angsty, bitter, rash

the snow - my source of anger

it's taken out on snow's dear cousin

i devour a sundae

Something about a midmorn brunch

equipped with toast and bacon

seems most appropriate to be had

when it's a lazy sunday

Program alarm to 9:20

a time i'm still not used to

i close my eyes, and fall asleep

with dreams of this next sunday

Wake up and stretch, 11:12

languid, content, well-rested

i knew this day would finally come

oh shit, its not a sunday