Pretending To Be Human

The grind is constant;
the wheels
of the push cart,
the work day,
the slow death
march,
my cavity filled teeth,
and the axe.

There is always
a standstill
when it comes
to a problem,
the staff screech
to a hault
like a locomotive
blowing out steam.

They try not to feed
the fire
with more coal,
but sometimes it's the only way
to keep the money moving.

Our pens wound
notepads with names
and numbers we rarely have
time to call,
let alone
lie
about the quality
of the quantity
that remains.

We've grinded our smiles
into frowns,
our hearts
into Hell,
so kiss our heads goodnight,
because tomorrow
is another day,
another day
full of fucks
to fend off.