Motivation

 

At dawn, the alarm clock—

A drill sergeant in a previous life—

Shouts orders at my unwilling flesh.

I march to the bathroom, a ghost in a maze.

 

The mirror greets me with a skeptic's gaze.

A coffee mug, half-full, promises a ceasefire,

Negotiates with weighted eyelids

For just another day in the trenches.

 

A picture twirls on the fridge door,

A child's crayon sun, unabashed in its joy—

It holds the mortgage on my heart,

Its colors, the brightest kind of debt.

 

Each step out the door, a gamble,

Dice clatter down the suburban streets—

To break bread with steel machines,

To turn the cogs, to earn my keep.

 

The chair at my desk, a confessional,

Where I trade my hours for pennies,

And the pens, somber little undertakers,

Bury dreams in piles of paper. 

 

Is it duty or the lingering ghost of ambition?

Or maybe the wallet, thin and famished,

Growling like a caged beast at the zoo—

Each bill, a morsel thrown to keep it quiet.

 

At night, the house hums its lullabies,

The dinner plate's a shallow victory,

Every bite, a clink in the coin jar—

The simple alchemy of survival.