Every day is a day of waking.
Every day is a day of work.
Every day is a sunrise setting.
Every day is a sunset missed.
Every day is a missing moment.
Every day I write the script.
Every day
I write the script.

Every night is a worthless order.
Every night is a pizza slice.
Every night is wasted quarter.
Every night, another roll of dice.
Every night, I try at playing games
at which I know I’m ill-equipped.
Every night
I write the script.

In the morn, the light burns brightly
frying cells I barely own.
As I turn my thoughts to rising,
aching muscles, heaving bone.
In the morn, I start to ponder,
like the last one, when I wept.
Every morn,
I will write the script.

Every day
I write the script.