Wake Up

Wake up.

That’s what a man is supposed to do, right?

Rise with the sun and grind ‘til it sets.

Push forward, never question, never rest.

Just keep moving.

Because motion is survival.

Clock in.

Face blank.

Mind empty.

Soul heavy.

But money doesn’t wait, does it?

So I’ll do what’s expected.

Trade my hours for numbers

That vanish before I can taste them.

Spend it on things to numb the ache,

Food that fills but never satisfies,

Noise that drowns but never soothes.

Consume.

Then hit the gym.

Isn’t that what makes you strong?

Isn’t that what they say?

Sad? Deadlifts.

Lonely? Deadlifts.

Not enough? More deadlifts.

Build a body they admire,

Even if the soul beneath it crumbles.

Carry the weight, bear the load.

Not just the iron—but the expectation.

Faster, fitter, harder.

But never happier.

Because that’s not the goal, is it?

The goal is to endure.

So keep walking, step by step,

Straddling the line between existing and fading,

Numb to the things that once mattered—

Music, books, laughter, love.

And when the time comes,

When the world no longer needs what little I offer,

I’ll finally stop.

No more weight to carry.

But at least my hands will be calloused.