I wake up in the dark, my shift is already waiting for me
Selling eight hours of my life for a sum that wasn't even
Enough to live on just enough to make it back
Tomorrow again, and again, without ever arriving
I'm a number, I'm a badge, I'm a target, I'm a function
My existence reduced to a production spreadsheet
Sartre said I invent myself with every gesture
But what gesture do I have left when I sell my body and everything else?
Cog
I spin but I'm not going anywhere
Cog
They wear me down until I become scrap and junk
They trade my life
For a wage that doesn't cut it
Cog
And the machine never breaks
They call me a resource human only on paper
Disposable when I get sick
Forgettable when I'm loyal
Productivity demands
That I erase who I am
And at the end of the month
What's left barely covers what it cost
Nausea from selling time that'll never come back
From knowing that my essence has become profit for others
Condemned to be free in a cage with a clock
Free to choose
Between hunger
And my torment
Cog
I spin but I'm not going anywhere
Cog
They wear me down until I become scrap and junk
Clock in
The gear swallows me
Meets the quota
Empties me from the inside
I smile at the boss
While I'm dying inside
I am not a part
I am not disposable
I stop the machine
I step off the assembly line
I refuse the id badge
I am not a gear
I am what the machine will never grind down
I am what's left over
When I say no
