There's no report card at the end of life
A little poem for when I need to snap out of workaholic impulses
There’s no report card at the end of life
no performance review with the boss
no panel to judge, no teacher to grade
your body of work as a win or a loss
Answer to yourself, if you must give answers
though why pile on all that extra pain?
Who said you must use a deathbed for reckoning
and couldn’t just die in it, simple and plain?
Spreading around your kindness and joy
in present-time living becomes its own benefit
Can you reap it now, without a report card
or hoping for death to validate everything?