Workaholic

The clock hums softly through the night,
Its silver hands still marching on.
The city sleeps beneath the light,
But my day’s battle isn’t gone.

A thousand tabs, a dozen plans,
Deadlines stacked like bricks and stone.
I build my worth with restless hands,
Afraid to leave the work alone.

Coffee cools beside the screen,
Unread dreams wait by the door.
The life I wanted, faintly seen,
Gets postponed a little more.

Praise arrives in brief applause,
A spark that quickly fades away.
Then comes another list of chores,
Another mountain for the day.

I wear ambition like a crown,
Polished bright with sacrifice.
Yet sometimes when the noise dies down,
I wonder what I’ve paid as price.

Still the sunrise paints the sky,
Gold across the office wall.
And I keep moving, asking why
I answer every urgent call.

Perhaps one day I’ll learn the art
Of resting without guilt or fear — 
To know that value fills a heart
Even when no work appears.