Poetry

112.

Another day of work done,
another day of wondering if I accomplished enough.
This is the stuff that anxiety is made of,
and it’s funny that working from home would do this to me.

I know I shouldn’t be flippant.
I have work. I have money coming in.
I am, above all else, a fortunate and lucky man.

I appreciate my livelihood. I think that what I do is good.
It is just hard to sit here,
on the computer that I also use for fun
(video games, music, YouTube, blogging, oh my),
and crank out work without distracting myself.

I mean, it’s not like I
was incredibly focused at the office, either.
Now, though, every minute feels watched,
every task feels recorded,
everything is veiled in a weird Big Brother vibe
that I certainly do not enjoy.

I get it. They want to know that I did what I said I did.
But isn’t the finished product enough?

I know what my problem is.
I’m not as productive as I could be.
But what is productivity?
Do I need to beat my fists against the keyboard until
a million science lessons burst forth?
Good work takes time.
But everyone wants it fast.

Okay, I’m stretching the truth.
No one wants it fast.
I am just worried
that if I don’t deliver results with expedience,
then a different word that starts with ex becomes my descriptor.

Expendable.

I am merely worried about relevance.
I tend to hate quotas. But I’ve got to prove my worth, lest I
get lost in some organizational shuffle.
So I hold myself to some ridiculous standard,
and I try to do well.

I wish that the trying was enough.
What. The fuck. Have I. Accomplished?

Thank you, this has been me
running around my brain and beating myself up.
It’s time to relax. Forget about work, if only
for the evening.

Standard

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