9 to 5 desk job

qwerty keys clicking,
rhythmically printing out lines and lines
of lives and the numbers associated with each.

There's the sound of the shuffling papers,
creaking file cabinets,
and the loud angry rumbling of the heater.

My tongue tastes like cheap envelope glue,
and down the hall I hear my boss mumble,
there's another policy that expires on this date
or about more calls about more numbers that are too expensive.

I can hear the tap tap tap of my foot,
followed by another stack of names and numbers.
Lunch is in two hours and after that I can go home in four.

Cheap envelope glue,
qwerty keys clicking,
and the electronic ring of a phone.

A winter job,
something to keep my hands occupied,
and my wallet filled for next semester.

But my mind is already set on 4:30.
The blissful time when I can shut down my computer,
go home and return to the laptop I love.

A new set of qwerty keys,
the job I wish I could do all day.
Escaping from the economic stopgap of insurance,
and returning to the true job.

However it's only 2pm now, I've daydreamed the day away
and there's eight more files that need to be ran through
before I can dream again.

The dark place

It seems that every time something goes wrong,
I return to the dark place.

The deep crevice of my mind,
a thick viscous black liquid of despair.
So I can just lay there,
and drown.

It's here that I spend most times I'm gone,
when my manicism takes a hold
and I'm choked by the stagnant air
of my own depression and anxiety.

It's the voice who clings on my shoulders
and whispers the worst things to come,
it's because of me this happened.

It's because you weren't as giving.
It's because you weren't submissive enough.
It's because you are a crybaby.
It's because you're lazy.
It's because you were born.

Who would ever love a creature who drives so many,
into the darkest places
because that's where you thrive.

You ruined his life.
You ruined her life.
You ruined her body.
You abandoned them.
You broke his heart.

It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault.







You always dreamed of being an angel,
maybe it's time your walk off the overpass...