I step out of bed each day
and collapse upon the floor.
Why I pick myself up and how
are a mystery every morning.

Like someone whispering,
"Don't give up yet.  You still have hope.
And hope is the light that will guide you home."
So I keep moving, keep breathing,
keep loving, keep failing.
But I keep living.

And every morning
when I'm tired of this life,
ripped to shreds and worn to the bone,
I hear a voice that reminds me,
weary I may be,
I know that when I fall
someone will catch me,
even if it is the ground.