Weekdays drift on in their quiet, muted tone,
each hour repeating what the last became,
and I move through them feeling half-alone.
The minutes circle back, always the same,
a looping march beneath fluorescent light,
each hour repeating what the last became.
I wait for something new to spark the night,
but routine hums its low, unchanging drone,
a looping march beneath fluorescent light.
By Wednesday, even shadows seem well-known,
stacked neatly like the tasks I never fight,
while routine hums its low, unchanging drone.
Still, small hopes flicker faint but staying bright,
promising that soon the week will shift its tone,
stacked neatly like the tasks I never fight.
Yet dawn returns to claim my restless throne,
weekdays drift on in their quiet, muted tone,
promising that soon the week will shift its tone,
and I move through them feeling half-alone.
Therapy Bits 
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