Poetry

That May Be, 25 (146.)

It’s time for a shift of priorities,
no more
“I’ll definitely work this weekend
to make up for last week,”
’cause my free time is becoming a neverending
barrage of thoughts that revolve around my job.

It’s not supposed to be like this.
At least, if I’m going to think about work,
I’d like to sit down and work, but
lately it’s just me wondering
if I’ll be able to keep up with all the projects
I’ve got going on.

This makes it sound like I’m insanely busy,
and I’m really not –
I’m only working on two, maybe three things
that I need to devote my time to,
but even those few
tasks are more difficult than I’d like to admit.
So I sit, at home in the time of COVID,
with games to play and books to read,
and my mind turns in my skull,
always stopping, always stumbling,
over god damn work.

I want to enjoy myself.
I want to commit my time and effort
to a new hobby or skill,
and there are games
I just really wanna play.
A new one releases on Wednesday,
and like,
I’ve gotta put in fifty hours this week
to stay on track.
(It’s a long story, my current job, but
it suffices to say that it’s difficult
to actually enjoy my time.)
Anyway, I’ll be working ten hours a day
for the next five days, probably,
and after work
I’ll want to play this new game.
The shitty thoughts begin:

Should I work on Saturday?
Should I push it to Sunday?
Should I split ten hours into
two 5 hour days?
Do these numbers even make sense?
SHIT, should I just work twelve hours for four days in a row?
Christ, I thought forty hours a week was bad.

I remind myself
that I did this to myself,
that I agreed to work a certain number of hours by a certain date,
that I need to hold to this contract
if I hope to reap the benefits.

So I’ll stick to the shitty work schedule,
and play my games when I can,
and write a poem a day,
and keep my fuckin’ chin up.
I know I can do this.
My only concern is the cost.

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