He comes in early, before the lights are warm,
Teh-o-ais-limau-kurang-manis trembling in his tired hand.
The smile he wears is thin as paper…
Folding, but never torn.
He talks about targets, deadlines, growth,
But his voice wavers between the words.
He’s floating on expectations,
Held up by sheer routine and duty.
You try to help, offer small kindnesses,
A listening ear, a lunch, a break.
But he waves you off politely,
Because drowning men don’t ask to be saved.
Once, he believed in purpose.
Now, he just believes in payday.
He says it’s fine, he’s got this.
He work late, too late.
Is he a colleague, a boss, a friend?
Or he is just you?
He is a drowning man.
He will pull you under.
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