Burnout Poem by Alan Bruce Thompson

It was myself I saw sitting there,
As I looked down at the sitter motionless in a chair.
I looked tired with a face full of care,
My eyes look lost, with a lifeless stare,
I had become a continuous traveller.

Different city each day, new continent each week,
My brain jet-lagged, could not find the words to speak.
But then though dry throat the words came with a squeak,
I was out of synchronisation with my own peak,
The important mighty businessman was now one of the meek.

I've been famous, made a lot of cash,
But now I've had enough, it's turning into backlash.
I need to be careful what exactly I smash,
I must get out, get away before I crash,
Before I turn myself, and my world into trash.