(20 minute poetry)

All fine this time though next time who knows.

I am Stuck inside a rhythm,
is there a name for that?
A schism?
and would they name it after me?

I want to be famous instead I am nameless
one of the drones which society
in their kindness homes,
they give me employment and say it empowers me,
but there's little enjoyment and
I get little of it.

And yet I am thankful that I am not in a bank full
of thieves with a grievance and that is a bonus, it seems the onus is on me to find a middle ground yet still be
Decisive.

So
that's how it plays out
I forget about schisms which are not in the music nor rhyming or rhythms and I lay down and die.

I sit and I spy with this Central line eye something beginning with?
And she thought I was looking at her and the clothes that she nearly wore and the bore sat beside her,
I never spied her at all.