My life,
These times,
The epitome,
Of a downwards trajectory.
My existence is but a career,
I wish to resign,
So consider,
Every crooked letter of this poem
As one step closer to my resignation letter.
Recognise this note,
As my termination,
Of a short life,
Of poorly attempted dedication.
Working this life,
For minimum wage,
With out a break,
Except a broken sense of direction,
Displayed.
Life is merely a career
And I wish to swerve,
I wish to veer,
I wish for my torn family,
To not shed a tear.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
My life,
These times,
The epitome,
Of a downwards trajectory.
My existence is but a career,
I wish to resign,
So consider,
Every crooked letter of this poem
As one step closer to my resignation letter.
Recognise this note,
As my termination,
Of a short life,
Of poorly attempted dedication.
Working this life,
For minimum wage,
With out a break,
Except a broken sense of direction,
Displayed.
Life is merely a career
And I wish to swerve,
I wish to veer,
I wish for my torn family,
To not shed a tear.
Quitting Time, Again
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