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.View all articles