Work, Work, Work – A Poem About Workoholism

All day, every day, I work, work, work

On the train, at the office, at home in my bed

Work, work, work on my mind, the only thought in my head

The night turns to day, and the day turns to night

I work, work, work, with no end to work anywhere in sight

The whys of my work are difficult to answer

So I suppress them with force, as I would the knowledge of having cancer

All day, every day, I work, work, work

No time for the others, so they believe I’m a jerk

No time for passion or a love that could be

As work consumes every moment, slowly becoming me

What I’m afraid of and what I try to hide

Is the part of myself that I thought committed suicide

The part of myself that used to be me

The vulnerable one now hidden, no longer free

All day, every day, I work, work, work

Inching closer to death, to be buried in the dirt

 

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