PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Sometimes I wish these walls would close in on me.

Would that constitute some worker’s comp?

Your face reminds me of a beaten typewriter,

Unsmooth and ancient, not to much use to me,

Except to pound more ink-stained assignments

On my head,

No eraser either.

The black letters cluster together,

Until they are unreadable.

Three hours, split like splinters in my fingers,

I wish there were five more, maybe six,

To account for all the duties that drop on me like pendulums.

I’m that unacknowledged slave in shackles,

Turned to shambles under my clothes.

My eyes feel different,

Hot but not warm,

Liquid anger wishes to overflow into my life,

But I throw it all away into my filing cabinet at 6 o’clock.

And it’s 4:30 now, and the bitch has left the building.

Phew, that was a close one,

I hear screaming in my head,

At least hopefully that’s where it stays.

I pursue that flowy poetry,

But all I can think about it

Is jagged words of hate and frustration.

I can’t even articulate the brick wall I’ve just hit

In this office.