This job is making me ill – a poem
I’m struggling under the mental strain,
There’s no time to relax my overworked brain,
I have no more resources to drain,
This job is making me ill.
The relentless demands are so unfair,
They seem to come from everywhere ,
I have so little time for patient care,
This job is making me ill.
If I have to hear the phrase once more,
’Doctor, I need a letter for…’
I think I’ll head straight for the door,
This job is making me ill.
I have to listen to negative press,
About how my profession is in such a mess,
How much more I can take, I can only guess,
This job is making me ill.
Every day at work can feel like a fight,
My family has noticed that I’m not right,
I’m exhausted and grumpy every night,
This job is making me ill.
So what does the future hold?
Will I still do this job when I am old?
Will I just keep doing what I’m told?
Until this job does make me ill.
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