Listen up Young Man!
You stalk in here every morning,
Your suit sharp and briefcase gleaming,
A scent of expensive cologne trails behind,
Dreadfully camouflaging the reek of a rotting mind.
Your frown greets me sourly,
Your fingers slam at my smooth surface,
Your foot taps restlessly against my corner,
Your shoulders crack from a cramped misery,
Your tie chokes every pleasantry you spittle out,
Your pursed mouth smothers your violent expletives.
Where is the boy who wished to soar in stars?
Where is the athlete who lived to play football?
Where is the youth who aspired to bring a change?
I see a ghost who has forgotten the face of the skies.
I find a shadow who can barely keep up his forged smile.
I hear a slave who bequeathed the power of a spirited fight.
Listen up Young Man!
The stale air is drawing your life out,
The dream of green notes haunting your sleep,
The incessant torrent of reports stifling your vision,
Run! Lest they make a rat out of you in this twisted race.
At dVerse, Marina Sofia recommended an exercise to make the abstract concrete, where I ended up with the prompt “Frustrated Desk”. This is my slightly skewed take on it.
An Armchair Perfectionist 