What are Mondays and Fridays?
What good are fresh and sunny days?
A puddle of time stares back at me,
As I glare at it's empty ways.
Time screams out "fill me!"
It dares to shout "kill me!"
But I'm stuck with its passage,
Slow, often still.
Where is the hustle?
The rushing demand?
The need to wake up,
Where's the purpose to stand?
Time simply goes on.
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