Oh look, it's that time

Of the week again

When absolute melancholy

Creeps into each cell

Of your already melancholic body;

You heave, sulk, scream,

Have more break downs

Than those in nuclear fissions

And then, you start questioning

Your existence, your decisions,

Even your will to live;

You wonder if it is

Absolutely necessary for

The sun to rise tomorrow,

What good is it going to do?

A new day that's a clone

Of another similar day

From a week ago

Is as good as an old day,

So what will the sunrise do,

Apart from pushing you into

The rat race that has

Almost killed you to an extent;

It's that time of the week again,

When the clock slowly

Ticks away the last minutes

Of the precious Sunday night,

Leaving you under a blanket

Of infinite dread as you

Think of the new day,

AKA Monday Mornings.

- NaPoWriMo, Day 17

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