Sunday sets in like a creeping suspicion,
Restless unease, a hint of a hangover.
Procrastination festers like a tumor;
So much to do and too much time to do it
So just waste away the day, regret the night
That soothes with a quick fix of television,
Empty Internet surfing and idle dreams
That shatter like bones from the piercing alarm.
Maybe this time my alarm will not go off
And I will fly in blissful slumber somewhere,
Anywhere, away from work and time and life,
Where there is no such thing as Monday morning.
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