Fog, Mud, And Empty Praise Poem by Micronjan (Micron)

Monday morning drags in grey,
Dark when I rise, light late to care.
Fog hugs the road like a warning
That nothing ahead will be fair.

Work greets me with no space again—
Hard ground saved for visitors passing through.
Those who show up every day
Get pushed aside, out of view.

I park in mud, in standing water,
Puddles deep, the message mean.
Every soaked step spells it out:
This is how little I'm seen.

They say we appreciate what you do —
My manager, then his as well.
The words stack up like empty praise,
But my pay stays where it fell.

My new car wears the mess too,
Muddy mats I stop cleaning now.
No point caring for my own things
Where the company won't show how.

Fog outside, fog in my head—
Neither clears by the time I'm in.
Monday doesn't just start the week;
It reminds me where I stand.