(prompt: There are seven days of the week, and one of them hates you. Oddly enough, it isn't
Monday...)
Everybody hates
Monday; the punch-
line to working class
humor; buttered bread
of comic strips. Grin
and bear it wisdom.
Me? Too busy lost
in always incoming
tides of dedication
to the drink; gasp
at the air and sink
down willingly.
Washing my wounds
in salt-water. Self-care
for those dead-set
on drowning; knowing
which way is up, but
swimming in the other.
Throwing-up daily
on the harsh and brutal
shores of Living
On the Rocks; always
scared, always thirsty,
always, almost always,
I didn't know how
else to live. Never
feared a Monday,
per se; but instead,
any day of the week
that ended in "y"...
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