In and out, I work, from 9 to 5, I'm short.
Short on money, food, energy, life itself.
The things I want—a car, a party, a break—
drift further away, swallowed by routine.
I feel like I'm drowning,
a small piece in a pot of soup,
waiting to dissolve, waiting to be replaced.
Still, I show up.

Payday arrives.
Gimme-gimme, money-money,
a fleeting moment of satisfaction.
It's never enough, but for today,
I'll pretend it is.

The next day, I'm short again.
Skipped breakfast, bought a snack,
hoping it'll hold me over.
Another day, I'm short on energy,
caught dozing, jolted awake.
Fingers fly across the keyboard,
sticky keys slowing me down.

Then comes the day—
In and out, I sob,
from 12 to 12, I'm short.
No job, no safety net,
just what's left behind.