So one more Saturday waiting by the door.
So once more, sick of feeling insecure.

Quarter past late but we both know I'll wait.
And if you ask, I'll smile, “Hey, I'm great!”

**** corners of my mouth that twitch,
moving the sand that covers my ditch.

**** you for making me write clichés.
Dumb me for counting all the days.

Too hard to end and sound uplifting,
give me a hand, I'm slowly drifting.

But no, like Edith, I regret nothing.
No, not a thing, I'm the one that makes me sing.