Clocking in the 8 hours, counting the passage of time,
Doesn't matter the work I do, show me the money, its fine.
The job for me is just a means- to put food on the table,
Its a chore, a punishment, a necessity of sorts; a dreary life, no fable.
Finding 80 hour week too little, I squeeze value from each hour,
To climb the ladder of success is my dream, each day I raise the bar.
The career for me is an adrenaline rush, to end at the top of the pile,
Its a status, a perk, an ego of sorts, for which I go the extra mile.
The day hours are just not enough, so it keeps me up at night,
It matters what I do- or don't; I chase goals with all my might.
The calling for me is my raison-d'etre, to serve my only wish,
Its a harmonious passion, a commitment of sorts, the journey pure bliss.
Some do it for money, some for fame and power, others are called to write,
Penning a sonnet, sans money or fame, on a daily basis, feels so right!
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