Every morning when I wake up
I see—
Just another day on the run.
And even before I
open my eyes
the start-gun has fired
I miss it, and,
I miss it every day.
When I get on the streets
there are people running everywhere.
Perhaps they have heard the gun.
I am defeated every day.
I admit,
I am no good at this chase.
I go by my own pace,
slow,
and steady.
With no intentions to win this race.
Leave me alone,
and cut those strings.
Ask me nothing,
and, give me nothing.
I have my own burdens,
and a life to write.
I have my own ways,
A diary, a pen, and
375 ml Of Happiness.