As I travel to work
And rub the crusty sleep from my eye.
I think of the day ahead
And can’t help but think,
What is the point.
Brain is on auto-pilot,
I would say cruise control,
But neither word seems appropriate.
Thoughts of …
Starbucks coffee & a cookie - breakfast
While all types of music plays in my ears.
Stretches of arms, legs and back,
Face slapping and head rubbing,
Along with attempts at rest.
All apart of the ritual of travelling to work.
But I see I am not the only one.
Hair and make up being fixed,
Unfinished work being touched up,
Cars’ edging in that gap till it’s theirs.
All these different ways and routines,
But to look around
And see the same type faces as mine.
I am undecided. To if it comforting
Or just that even more depressing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.