Each day begins new
Unwritten, waiting for us to fill its blank pages,
Waiting for us to write the stories.
But not each day starts with a clean blank page
Some days only hold crumpled torn pages
Some days I only get half a sheet
By mid morning both sides are full
But there are those days when the lines are clear
The page is white and clean.
The sun shines bright and I choose what's on my page.
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