So I started working full-time a couple of weeks ago and suffice to say, it hasn't exactly been a pleasant experience. I mean, I'm getting paid pretty well (more than most everyone I know at my age), but let's just say I'm not exactly enjoying it.
Anyways, while I had nothing to do, I pretended to be busy by writing this poem. It needs a bit of rewriting and such, but here it is in its current state.
"Nine to Five"
I sit here silently, forlorn,
Whilst doing gibberish, I'm torn;
Time trickles slowly and in scorn,
Sometimes I wish I were unborn,
And wake up in another place,
And have a whole new different face,
Without so much of a trace
Of longing, lust and of disgrace.
I'd start all over and I'd make
Sure that I do it right and take
Not all I can but what I need
Cease putting on a show, being a fake;
My fellow brethren I would heed,
Because there's so much I must find,
Learn and discover, mine
Own battles I would fight
And with my eyes I'd see the light
And be in front and not behind.
I'd seek for my right place, not theirs,
My own path and methods where
I could do that which I love
And not be bored to tears and wear
A frown endlessly and stare
At a computer all day long
And think of all that I did wrong
To end up finally right here, where
I'm a doll a puppeteer
Is toying with and always fear
That my own self I cannot be
Not now, nor ever being free,
Imprisoned in my own mistake,
This curse I cannot lift nor break,
And so I sit and long for hope
That someday I will have, elope
From this life to another scope,
Where satisfaction can be found
By me, yours truly, and unbound
I'll find myself with every sound
Of breath. What's that you say?
It's foolish? That there is no way
I'll pull it off,
No matter to which god I pray,
That it is nothing but a dream,
A silly trance, a hopeless scheme,
To start all over and anew?
To this I smile because I knew
From the beginning what it was, to you
I shall this silly thing confess
And hope my reader won't obsess
That all of this is but a dream,
A pointless ruse it all might seem,
Yet dreams can keep a man alive
When he has run out of his drive
To live, to wake up, to go on
Incessantly, and every dawn
He questions why he does upon
Remembering his one true cause,
His whisper of a wish because
That it is all he can afford
And yet for him it is enough
To have a tiny bit restored
Of his own lifeblood and he goes
To work, full knowing that the woes
Won't stop, but what is he to do,
To believe that which he knows true?
He cannot go back, it's too late,
It's chosen him, his cruel fate,
And so he lives in his own world
That he created, he unfurled,
His own reality he weaves,
But now that man must take his leave.
It's here, it's nigh, time to revive,
'Tis time to go, it's almost five.
EDIT: Deleted my name, in the off chance someone from work happens to stumble on these message boards. As much as I dislike work, I don't want to get fired.