Nighttime sighs her last goodbyes,
Sweet sunlight trickles in.
I’ve never moved my arm so fast,
This alarm makes such a din.

My muscles ache, my eyelids burn,
Don’t ask about my head.
If I must do this every day–
I wish that I were dead.

Why, oh why, I moan, I cry,
As stumbling steps I take,
On violent crimes my mind doth dwell.
On yawns my jaw doth break.

As water boils and grain-bread toasts,
I contemplate my fate.
Another morning has come ’round,
Another one to hate.


Copy Editor    Aislinn is a Creative Writing major, still sustaining the hope of making a career from loving words. She can be most often found muttering about grammatical errors in textbooks to her long-suffering cat, Chicken Nugget. This is her third year as The Nav's copy editor, and she enjoys it very much.

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