When the sun is but a brushstroke on a canvas of black, we rise

Too early, too tired, too under-paid 

We arrive in droves and disperse to our respective stations

Work begins before work, on the glare of a too old computer


pills pills pills

Can't pass them fast enough

shots shots shots

People won't hold still

beeping beeping beeping

There are so many machines

death death death

We fight it everyday


Work ended an hour ago, two hours ago, three hours ago

and yet we are working with no end in sight

When a new wave of workers comes we work on still

Everything must be perfect

If you didn't chart it it didn't happen

DNR, consent forms, heparin flow chart, all signed


At the end of the long and back-breaking day we leave

Blood on our shoes and sweat soaking our scrubs

Nothing can be more rewarding

and we can't wait to do it again tomorrow

This poem is about: 
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741