Tomorrow is another day,
and I’m supposed to be happy about writing this.
Tomorrow is another day
that is not the day I want it to be.
I need two more tomorrows until I can break free from this plaid conformity
and wear the freedom of the weekend.
After those two tomorrows,
I’ll be begging for a yesterday.
Tomorrow is another day,
another drive,
another monotony of hours
strung together by breath and boredom.