Music beating, banging off every wall
Screaming tonsils, in each blink..
wait,want,wail for
liquid.
The bar is vibrating,
I wait for it to crack,
in an earthquake filled with confused people,
who have been fooled into thinking this can be a short sweet escape
..and swallow each and every person.
I have nothing but my shirt and jeans
I am in a bad dream that life has brought me to this
slaving and trading my minutes
for working for the big man. head office.
wearing my skin out, muscles aching to each and every ligament
Sambuca fingers will serve you next but
somewhere behind me the clock is ticking
ticking
ticking
get out of here.
Routine sickens me...but the same faces worn in and out
of these walls, for paper.
I look at him in suit and say
"Fuck my life, it's traded for yours."
Hi, thank you for posting on my Keats poem. I am an office drone, trying to get out of the corporate world FOR GOOD, so this post really resonated with me. It is wearing my skin out, since my outside life doesn't match my inside life. You know what I mean? Take care.
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