Exiting Screaming

I love when somebody
puts a deadline gun to my brain
then tells me Russian Roulette
is a prove of loyalty.

It isn’t the pressure cooker
simmering in my gut
that drives me insane,
for it is when you know
some megalomaniac, anal retentive Nazi
has control over your stress control panel
and is a sadistic fiend
who thrives on seeing the lines
on my face
grow tight and stern.

How exquisite is his skill,
the power to plan that perfect second
when he can inflict some intense anxiety
so my nerves become bare wires
exposing my insides
to sudden shocks
like little strikes of lightning,
causing spasms to my muscles.

My chest grows tight
as I dream of strangling one tyrant,
then knowing it would be pointless
since there are even worse monsters
in the chairs who rule his behind.

Biting my lip and smiling
while gritting my teeth,
fingers pounding on keyboard for relief,
finally surviving until the end of my shift,
exiting screaming.