The grind

That early morning lack of desire

The, waking up, staring at your alarm and

Questioning your will to rise out of bed

This is for the bag

But is it worth my sanity?

Is the constant return to the toxicity worth my mental health

Everyday I wallow in my own sorrow and misery

Just to get this bag

I swallow my pride and entertain people I don’t like

Just to gain money I won’t have tomorrow

Bills pile up as my depression and anxiety rise

Again and again and again I succumb every morning to the same lie

That I have to do this

That having this employment is a blessing and that this currency will save me from falling apart

Every morning I waste away in this place knowing I’m destined to be far more great

How many more times will I stare into the light

On my phone as if I were going blind as that sound burns a tone in my head

Screaming

GET UP NIGGA

How many times must I rise out of my bed,

Knowing that inside I feel dead every time

I hop in the shower

And put on my work clothes

Over and over again the grind continues

And I slowly creep into the descent

Of my own kind

Hating every moment of this grind

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