THE PRISON OF ROUTINE

Morning returns, just like yesterday, An alarm strikes through unfinished silence. Hurried steps to the same old desk, Wearing a smile rehearsed in last night's mirror. Warm greetings, but soulless still, Dry conversations, vanishing promises. A crisp shirt, polished shoes, But the heart—creased and covered in dust. A mask is worn, fit for the role, In meetings, elevators, at lunchtime strolls. All in order, all aligned, But who am I beneath this design? Childhood dreams fade in Excel sheets, The sky replaced by undying neon lights. Laughing not from joy, but duty, Living a life that feels leased, not owned. Yet quietly, I begin to write, Between reports, in tiny notes. Poems and silence become escape, Behind the bars of formal shape. I want to run— Nowhere specific, just not to eight o’clock. To cry without being told to calm, To live without the need to explain. They call this success— But my heart whispers: this is a cell. And perhaps the key isn't on the door, But in the courage to unlock myself.