A new day dawns in a life set on repeat,
Grateful my eyes open, then comes the defeat.
Is the loss waiting ahead, or staged in my head?
Another day, another dollar, the living half-dead.

Rinse and repeat, over and over so long,
That’s the dull, grinding hum of the Trudger’s song.
Never quite fitting, always off-key,
Marching in time with a clock that owns me.

He wakes with the taste of exhaustion still fresh
Sleep never reaching the parts under stress.
Dreams stay abandoned somewhere in the dark
Filed away neatly with “someday” and “start.”

Others speak loudly of passion and drive
Of loving the grind just to feel alive.
The Trudger learned early that talk is cheap
And purpose gets blurry when rent’s due each week.

He works in the gaps where the system won’t look
Where effort’s a habit, not something that shook.
No glory in showing, no medals for pain
Just hands worn thin by repeating the same.

They say, “At least you’re employed,” like that’s grace
As if survival alone earns its place.
As if wanting more is a crime or a flaw
As if quiet despair deserves no pause.

The Trudger doesn’t scream. He’s learned better than that.
Doesn’t shatter or run or fall fully flat.
He absorbs the days like a bruise learns skin
Healing just enough to be struck again.

He questions the rules but keeps playing along
Not because he believes them, just too tired to wrong.
Not broken, not brave, not heroic or free
Just present enough not to completely flee.

And somewhere beneath the routine and the drag
There’s a bitterness folded like notes in a bag.
Not rage… something colder, quieter, dense
The weight of endurance mistaken for sense.

So he trudges on, not hopeful, not blind
Just painfully aware of the theft of his time.
Still moving, not winning, not choosing the pace
Just leaving his shape in a well-worn place.

And if freedom exists, it’s not loud, not grand
Not a finish line waiting with a helping hand.
It’s the moment he stops calling this living “fine,”
And admits that surviving was never the design.