Vessel of detail and determination.
Nestle into a quality state of quandary and cattywampus hesitation.
Hundreds of eyes and hands, they reach for me.
Thunders of calls and lightning strikes of emails and emails flash flood, I see.
Am I dying to self in order to serve with “pleasure” or am I killing me instead?
Cram and cringe and crunch a bunch of logic together another day when my face feels less red.
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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Comments (7)
Feels like a slow death by spreadsheet ⚡️
Felt this. Not even a little break can fix this.
Thought- provoking! I love this🙏🏾
This captures the burnout of modern work so well.
Love this one! The storm of emails and calls felt so alive I almost ducked for cover lol. The “dying to self or killing me instead” line hit deep, very real and very raw.
This hits hard when your an old pup like me trying to learn new tricks on the computer. Your poem swiftly reminds me of the sensation of being overwhelmed and stifled by our latest ways of communicating. Excellent as always!
I'm sure it feels like death by technology sometimes... I like the thunderstorm imagery 🤩😊