We wear our busyness like a badge of pride,
A never-ending rush, a constant stride.
But beneath the surface, we conceal our fears,
And hide from thoughts that bring us tears.
Busy became our generation's coping mechanism,
A way to escape the anxieties within.
From millennials to Gen Z, we're trapped in this pace,
Constantly connected, yet lost in the space.
No time to ponder, no time to feel,
Just rush and hurry, and conceal.
Our minds are racing, our souls are worn,
As we trade peace for productivity's scorn.
But what of fulfillment? What of delight?
Does busy ever bring a peaceful night?
No prize is won, no trophy gained,
Just exhaustion, stress, and emotional pain.
In stillness lies the truth we hide,
That busyness cannot be our pride.
For in quiet moments, we find our way,
To peace, to calm, to a brand new day.
But will we ever break this endless cycle?
Will we ever find a moment to exhale?
Or are we doomed to chase this frantic pace,
Forever trapped in this restless, anxious space?