Habit.

It`s all the same, day after day.

This bed in which I lay,

will it be the tomb where I`ll waste away?

I wake up in the morning,

and I sigh with great mourning.

Is it not cruel that I should be forced

away from the oblivion of my dreams?

Is it not foul that I must watch the thread

lose its seam?

Reality, what an irony.

I wish not to spend my time in it,

yet every morning I wake all the same.

Woe and pain!

But fear not, for I do:

If I escape reality all together,

how will my sanity pull through?

If I give myself entirely to the world of

blissful oblivion,

this bed will most certainly become my tomb.

So, at the break of dawn each unavoidable day,

my heart sighs forlorn but I rise anyway.

I do not desire to know why,

I do not ask what motivates me for nothing does.

I simply do what I always do.

I force my tired, weak body to push through

and here we are; another day.

In this limbo I must stay

until the Reaper takes me away.