The Heavy Hands of Time

Morning comes too soon.

Another alarm, another day.

I sit on the edge of my bed,

feet planted on cold floors,

wondering if today will feel any different.

I go to work.

Push papers, push numbers, push myself.

Smile when needed, nod when required.

Speak only when spoken to.

Blend into the background.

No one asks if I’m okay.

Not that I’d have the answer.

Lunch break.

Same meal, same silence.

I see people laughing, talking, living.

I pretend I don’t notice.

Maybe I don’t belong in that world.

Clock out.

Drive home.

The gym waits,

like a quiet, metal sanctuary.

Load the bar.

Press the weight.

Let it bury what I can’t say.

The world wants strength,

so I give it.

Push harder, lift heavier.

Break myself down,

only to build again.

But when I come home,

it’s just me.

An empty room,

a television I never turn on,

a phone that never rings.

They say men should be strong.

Men should endure.

Men should keep going.

So I do.

Through silent dinners,

through aching bones,

through another night

where sleep feels like a stranger.

And tomorrow,

I’ll do it all again.