w&m ©2008 David M. Glasgow (ASCAP)
(http://threetwelve.net)

6 A.M., start your day wishing for another way to live.
But you struggle to your feet, and
8 A.M., on your way, winter sky is cold and grey above,
and on every face you meet you
see the same lifeless game playing out in vacant
eyes without hope or doubt, though they try to fake it.
Every soul, every day, only tries to make it home again.
And it’s just another day.
It’s just another day.

12 o’clock, sun is high. Paneled ceiling shields your eyes below,
so it might as well be midnight.
3 o’clock, rub your eyes. Only time you cherish flies away;
it’s the hours that you wish would
hurry past that always last. Urgent incidentals
take the wheel, ‘til you feel you’re inconsequential.
Hide the hurt, pay the bills. Everything essential falls away.
And it’s just another day.
It’s just another day.

Then your body heads home, but your head stays in gear:
one more task, one more day, one more week, one more year.
And the life that you work to preserve
waits for you to deserve to be free:
when you’ve made your way;
when you can say
that it’s not just another day.

10 o’clock, sink’s a mess. Dinner dishes matter less than sleep.
So you stumble off to bed, but
1 o’clock, still awake. Close your eyes, but you can’t shake this fear
that tomorrow will be just another day.
Just another day.
Just another day.