Sundays

I've always wondered why I always hated Sundays. I always have. Sorry, Lord.
There's just something dastardly about Sundays. People always leave. People always fight. And on the Lord's day. Maybe it is because Sunday is conviction day. The day that everyone has to face reality. I don't know. I'm just kind of rambling here. If there is anybody out there with some way to enlighten me, please do it. Tell me the secret behind Sundays. Cause I hate 'em.

Another poem

This one will be up for only a limited amount of time. Read it while you can. If you like it, fine. If you don't, fear not. For my next trick I shall make it disappear. If you like it, perhaps you might want an explanation of what it means. In that case, I will post its translation.
This is a poem to our Creator

What's yours will be yours
To each its own and mongrel base
Forsooth our days were written and are
As guilty pleads a worthless case

Apathy's dynasties
What's yours will still be yours
Even hesitation's something
Peace is spawning open wars

Render unto Ceasar what
Belongs to Ceasar
What's yours is yours and so are they
But sinless we are neither

All men will still be men
All girls will still be girls
All sinners still in Sheol
And what is yours is yours.

Today.

Today, I shall triumph.

Today I will take 21, 600 breaths.

I will blink over 17,000 times.

My heart will beat 100,000 times today.

On average, I will say over 7000 different words today.

My brain will produce over 70, 000 unique thoughts today.

Approximately 146, 357 people will die today, but I will live.

I have triumphed.

But not by my strength.

The chance that earth could even support my life is 1, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000 to 1.

The Lord is my strength, and my all!