Work is swallowing me whole
I’m devoured, kicking and stomping against the roof of its Victorian mouth
Stringy thoughts like syrup
Cling to colleagues and projects and deadlines
And weekends are hazy and jagged
Flooded with feelings of money earning, the grind 48 hours from now
An empty Saturday lends itself to too much time spent musing
With money churning in the background
Realising you’re a cog, small and insignificant
Working always, whether it’s at the 9 to 5
Or working on myself
Always ruminating, stalling, forgetting, planning
Sheets sodden with schedules and words
Blunt days off with no real purpose
Work thoughts pour in like post drought rain.
talking to my pillow. 