The stream of work is infinite.
This is my day:
Wake up in the morning,
Eat, work, eat, work, eat, work, sleep, repeat.
The days collide together
Forming an ambiguous mass.
They call it life.
I call it monotony.
This "life" is a grey room,
With tight walls that give me claustrophobia.
No rest is in sight,
No relief,
No peace....
If sloth is a sin, what is this?
I must be a holy saint.
Why is repose an impossibility?
Because to stop is to be weak
And I am no craven.
A constant voice whispers in my ear,
"Work... work... work..."
And it utters only the truth;
I will never cease, though I am exhausted.
But the day I am buried in the ground
Will begin my eternal respite,
My only compensation for a life of toil.