Numbers dance on screens like demons,

Each sale a desperate gasp for air.

Your fingers tremble over keyboards,

While quotas loom like winter storms.

Morning coffee grows cold, untouched—

Another day of hollow victories.

Your reflection in the office window

Fades with each setting sun.

Why chase these phantom goals?

They multiply like shadows at dusk,

Consuming thoughts, dreams, breath,

Until your name becomes a metric.

Your child's drawing yellows,

Pinned forgotten on your cubicle wall.

Birthday candles melt unlit,

While you feed the corporate beast.

Remember when stars meant wishes,

Not performance ratings?

When time was measured in laughter,

Not quarterly returns?

Your suit—a threadbare armor,

Shields you from questions that burn:

Is this success worth the price

Of becoming a ghost in your own life?

The screen flickers blue in darkness,

Another midnight, another target.

But in this fluorescent wilderness,

Your soul whispers: “Enough.”