Sunday, boring Sunday

nailed to my chair
like a hand in a glove
with the world at my feet

I have nowhere to go
no friends to meet
I sit in retreat

a hollow space
an empty face
out of time
out of place

a boring Sunday
is al I have
nailed to a chair
birds in the trees

too far away
sky showing some fatigue
no one near enough to please
a longing is there

it says what you need
is some distracting sleep
to leave a boring Sunday
a withered leaf

(c) JR. eightees

In the attick

a world of its own
a world to own
a world of tales
a generation of play
in the attick

I'm there takin' a share
in the mysteries that came
over me
I 'm almost in retreat

I open up a book
a life is uncovered
from long before
showin' youth
once more
In the attick

I feel young
I feel ten again
good times there
don't feel age
in the attick

so I leaf
through the books
see the toys
dream a little
in the attick

memories a pleasure
sometimes a treasure
sometimes worse
when you were hurt
or more

It was a life
that lived
come to see it
as a gift
in the attick

(c) JR. eightees