Epitome

Hustle is a good thing, until it hurts you.

I keep going and going and going.

Nothing will stop me; not even

the pins and needles in my arms

and the lack of hunger.

I am invincible, a perfectionist.

Ready to do and move on to the next

big project.

I tire but I do not nap. I flex

my muscles once in the morning

but do not exercise.

There is too much to do.

I’m known as the epitome

of overachievement.

 

I keep going and going.

I’ve been on the last eleven years

and nothing will stop me; not even

the dizziness of a life lived

in the fast lane, and the worry

that I’m not good enough.

I can’t let anyone see the raw.

I must be polished and inspiring.

I don’t understand down time;

work-life balance is a thing?

If I do nothing I am nothing.

And I must always be

something.

 

I keep going.

Or at least I will until

my world comes crashing

down.

I’m not weak; I can’t be.

This can’t be--the fear

and anxiety are finally

washing over me.

I’m not sure how much longer

I can keep it up.

But I’m going to until

I can no longer.

Until I fall and can’t get up.

Until I drown in the ocean

of hustle.

I can barely swim as it is--

it’s amazing how long I’ve lasted.