Rat Race

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 By Kevin Kogo


I woke today and realized  

I have been building a house inside a machine.  


The walls are made of unanswered emails,  

the floors—worn thin from pacing  

between what I owe and what I’ve lost.  


Every morning I oil the gears with my silence,  

let the conveyor belt of expectations  

pull me through another day  

of assembling a life  

that isn’t mine.  


I saw my face in the bathroom mirror  

at 3:17 PM—  

a stranger with my eyes,  

hollowed out by fluorescent lights  

and the weight of pretending  

this is what living looks like.  


They call it "work"  

but I know it by its real name:  

a slow excavation of the soul,  

shoveling myself into piles  

labeled efficient 

professional 

disposable.  


One day I will stop  

and the machine won’t notice.  

The gears will keep turning,  

the productivity reports will bloom without me,  

and I will stand in the parking lot  

feeling the sun on my skin  

for the first time in years—  

terrified  

and alive.  


The tragedy isn’t leaving.  

It’s how long I believed  

the cage was a home.

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