Teeth in the Routine

Clock. Bite. Again. Morning is a blade without romance, Metal edge of repetition, perfect stance. You look for fireworks, I give you flint and grind— Greatness chews on granite, leaves the glitter behind. Every tick is a hammer, Every breath a vow— Underneath the ordinary You forge the future now. [Chorus] Put your teeth in the routine— Bite down, draw blood from the future. Let the grind find its sheen— Stone turns to spine, turns to nature. Slow burn, unseen— Power is the echo of discipline. Teeth in the routine— Again. Again. Begin. Grand dreams die of famine, Fed only when they shine. Feed them in the silence, Measure, cut, align. Sweat is the signature Of promises kept in gray; No spotlight for the sculptor Who chips at self each day. Every tick is a hammer, Every breath a vow— Underneath the ordinary You forge the future now. [Chorus] Put your teeth in the routine— Bite down, draw blood from the future. Let the grind find its sheen— Stone turns to spine, turns to nature. Slow burn, unseen— Power is the echo of discipline. Teeth in the routine— Again. Again. Begin. String section tightens, a single cello groans— Momentum is a prayer uttered only in tones. I name your excuses, let them hang in the air, Then mute them with a metronome’s cold, steady stare. [Final Chorus] Teeth in the routine— Bite down, draw blood from the future. Let the grind find its sheen— Stone turns to spine, turns to nature. Slow burn, unseen— Power is the echo of discipline. Teeth in the routine— Again. Again. Again. Habit is the quiet storm. Stand in it, stay… and rise.