Workaholics :

They don't get anywhere

Something has got out of hand.
One could just loose elasticity, when
Mind stretches beyond endurance
Deadlines. Drowning you in sweat.
Insecurity taps at your door. Harassment sits
Inside your locker. Fear of getting pulled up;
Pulled down; Pulled out; again and again
Work pile obscure all else.
Its when sweat can kill. Kill softly.
Pressure. Pilest home. When you don't hear
What's going on. Or see what's stalled.
Misunderstandings mount. Taking work home
Won't pay. Will never take you anywhere
To hell, yes, it might mess your life.
Bless your home!

Preoccupied with this and that miss out
On the off spring. Whatever that seem trivial
Maybe magnified in small eyes. Dependant souls,
Impacted like nothing. Pushed in to a bottomless hole
Of inexplicable complexity. Of the subconscious
That retain stains and bruises, indelible
To shake up their little world
With a whirlwind force, of helplessness
Lost without the North star, they
Get drowned in the desert sands
With no green horizon to beckon
Buried alone, in the drought to rot;
without drizzle. Without dampness of love
That parched ache, bloated, in their dry souls

It is not strange, then why some children, people
Act and react defensively to fall in line
With your lifestyle. Being, a workaholic
Drenched with passion for creativity.
Look, at the harm you have done. Not sparing
A second look. At your own little lives who
Look up to you for inspiration; for water. To enliven
Their small lives; minute in your eyes against
The vastness of your work load.
Your rank, your stature,
Your designation, your responsibility towards
What brings you credit, honour, praise, position
Salary increase and a pat on the back that aches.
The heart has become senseless. Like your life.
Dead. To the living. Its sad but its true.
How you overlap your family with office work
Overlooking lives that depend on you
For sustenance and care. Who play
Second fiddle to your professionalism
Call it ethical best practices! Taking
Your passion beyond. Excellence.
Home front starved. Of attention.
Left alone to mend itself. Your very own
Life blood, left in the hands of an uncultured
Maid, armed with no basic knowledge
In psychology nor child education.

Did it ever occur to you that
You gradually killed your little ones
Smashed their childhood to smithereens
Like the Humpty Dumpty; Never
To be put together again. You stole
Their innocent joy for the sake of
A few rupees more. What's done is done
And cannot be undone. Only thing left is
To shout to the world from roof tops
To stop chasing monetary dreams
Leaving behind life's treasures, your children
And their childhood, to the winds, to chance
To those who prey. Please don't sell
Their childhood dreams for tuppence.

CF