You do not see the tears
That trickle down every night,
After you leave the bed cold;
The only warmth being her work,
She turns to it more.
Then it starts to kill,
A kind of addiction,
A sort of escape,
Where mechanical routine
Is soul numbing - she doesn't feel -
At least, not anymore.
Layers after layers of paper
Smother her in her dreams;
The darkness which comes with it,
The high she gets off it,
All seems worth to hide the pain.
Piles after piles of books,
Miles and miles of faces,
Confused smiles and angry glares,
To work is to be free of the mob,
To be free of the anxiety and pain -
Yet it kills her, each second, a little more.
You do not see her broken spirit
Reflected in her now lifeless eyes,
The bed you left cold long ago,
But now you're back
Just to say goodbye.
The cold machine she has turned into,
The iron fist which she exerts in her field,
The drinks and weed she avoids,
Only to drown herself in more sheets,
Realise that you're the reason she's there -
A workaholic in her cold and lonely despair.
