This reads like the calendar lost its grip on reality and started confessing its feelings to you. Every day in your poem feels like a little world having its own existential crisis — splintering hearts, wandering vines, oceans that swallow the clock whole.
And that ending… Tomorrow only comes when it’s too late — that’s such a gorgeous, melancholy little punch. You made the week feel mythic, haunted, and strangely tender. I loved this.
Somehow, this reminds me of my unhappy days at school.
Monday was black.
Tuesday was deep blue.
Wednesday was sky blue
Thursday was orange.
Friday was red.
Saturday was yellow.
Sunday was green.
Synesthesia was not known about then, at least by not anybody I knew.
I've only learned about it fairly recently. It's fascinating. Thank you for sharing this with me, Tom.
Tomorrow has its own challenges, let’s deal with today first
Today is already more than enough, Adrian.
In war’s time, tomorrow always comes too late.
God yes! Sadly.
For many, tomorrow doesn’t come at all.
Sadly true, Paul..
Powerful, meaningful, emotionally charged.
Today’s experiences - enjoy happiness today instead of waiting for a "better" time tomorrow. Not always easy….
It isn't always possible to do what we desire.
So true, 🙏
Thank you. It's a gift to meet a talent as yours.
Thank you for your kind comment, Janis.
Beautiful Rea♥️
Dankie my liefste vriendin!! <3
This one hits so hard! Thank you for this Rea!
I’m happy it made an impression on you, Ryan!
Ok, my Substack messed up, and for some reason, comments got on the wrong poem hahah.
I love this one too—there is always tomorrow :)
No worries, Gabriela. I enjoy your comments. Thank you! ❤️❤️
As someone who suffers from seasonal depressive disorder this really hit the mark on how I'm feeling these days! Thank you, Rea<3
I suffer from the same disorder, Rasmus! Winter depresses me. Sending warm hugs.
OMG! Love it, Rea!! It's soo beautifully written!💖💖
Thank you, lovely Aster! <3
Aww my pleasure!💗^_^
Sometimes tomorrow brings the wish that it was yesterday once more.
🦋
That it does, Ann. 🩵
beautiful, rea
Thank you, Patty.
This reads like the calendar lost its grip on reality and started confessing its feelings to you. Every day in your poem feels like a little world having its own existential crisis — splintering hearts, wandering vines, oceans that swallow the clock whole.
And that ending… Tomorrow only comes when it’s too late — that’s such a gorgeous, melancholy little punch. You made the week feel mythic, haunted, and strangely tender. I loved this.
Thank you for your appreciation of my attempt to make the days of the week come alive. 💜💜
This poem feels like a slow march through the week, each day heavy with sorrow and longing.
Monday drags with madness, freedom already distant, time crawling like a wounded animal.
Tuesday breaks beneath a tree, the heart splintering into glittering shards too fragile to hold.
By Wednesday, vines of captivity entwine trembling bones, turning the speaker into stone.
Thursday dissolves time itself, the self adrift in stormy oceans of sacred yearning.
Friday arrives with mournful music, words floating on iridescent wings yet weighed down by grief.
The repetition of days becomes ritual, each one deepening the sense of entrapment and despair.
Nature mirrors the inner struggle: trees, vines, oceans, storms embody the soul’s turbulence.
The refrain insists tomorrow never comes, hope always deferred, freedom always too late.
Ultimately, the poem is a lament on time’s cruelty, where longing becomes endless and tomorrow remains unreachable.
Tomorrow becomes unreachable. Thank you for understanding my madness, Adrião.