You’re only happy when you’ve got
A job of work to do;
It’s that which serves to stop the rot
And eats the heart of you.
And, though you know it makes no sense,
You do it anyway,
Regardless of the recompense,
Since what’s the point of pay?
And, when each given task is done,
A hole of cosmic size
Reminds you that you’re just a one
Whose life’s blood daily dies.
And, when that comes to pass, you weep
Until you’ve cried yourself to sleep.
Photo by Ante Hamersmit on Unsplash
Workaholic
