More Worry Than Work

Worry wears no heavy boots,  

yet it stomps through our ribs,  

leaving footprints we never erase.  

It doesn’t clock in or out,  

doesn’t break for lunch or light,  

it just lingers like a shadowed guest.  

Work demands but leaves when done—  

a clock ticking toward permission  

to set your body gently down.  

But worry hums in the silence,  

filling rooms with imagined hurricanes,  

planting fears that sprout like weeds.  

Work bends our backs, yes,  

but worry—oh, how it bends  

our minds, folding them inward.  

When night calls you to rest,  

worry is a thief, pacing floors,  

whispering questions with no answers.  

And maybe that’s why it wins

because work ends at the body,  

and worry begins where the soul starts.