Morning comes like a bad sitcom
Morning, like death, comes swiftly and unexpectantly
Morning, like birth, brings the perfect brew of unedited reality and hopeful light
Morning, like becoming a newborn fresh out of the womb, can make you cry

The night, unlike the morning, lulls you
Holds you in it's cradle, in it's womb
When you finally close your eyes, you think, "maybe it's not really happening",
But when morning comes, any haze, any fog, is immediatly wiped away
One can see the very backdrop of your life, hungover not from alchohol but from life itself

The dreams, even when horrid, hold the satasfaction of being so pleasantly unreal,
The plots, the twists, the endings.
To figure out, the are impossible. Much like your life. And so you shrug them away,
A dream. Who cares? I've got enough to worry about.
You triumphantly stare at the ceiling, and then remember your life
Your real life
And you don't cry, just walk, hopelessly throughout your morning,
Finding solace only in the warm water of your shower, and marvel at milk's ability
To turn rigid cereal into non-complacent, soggy, nothings