F*** This Day
A poem
the ketchup bottle wheezes with the remnant juices of tomato paste
I shake and twist in futility
futility
work is the equivalent to lugging boulders across a field
only to lug them back across
in pointless
mindless
rhythm
Go ahead, take my dignity with my money
swallow it, burn it,
distribute it in the impotent
construction of the city streets
quarantine me
in the confines
of futility.
--signed, one in a dark moment
