Work

I'm stressed. I put out so much of myself in what I do, that I feel as if there's less of me because of it. The strain it puts on my body, the worries that scramble my mind. To go so unappreciated and undervalued for what you do, what you're willing to do, is what makes me feel empty. To put out your all and to have nothing left for yourself. For every slap on the wrist, how many pats on the back did I receive? For every hour of every day stolen from my life, how was I compensated? It's fleeting now. This drive, that compulsion, to keep me going. Don't leave me unresolved