'well enough to work'   it is said                      
that is not how i feel
but they don't want me to have any more
paid time off
('where are the nearest bathrooms ?' )    i scout
my eyes vote against it all                              
gloating white blight fills the corridors
           leering and bleaching my thinking
pressure strobing                        
my quaking hands cannot hide
         stoking up the goods   i am churned
   chilled in flashes   and ready to purge

this   somehow   became my neutral state
my wet and wrinkled butterfly
with development hacked
pollutants of my own body gummed
to some gnarled form of active culture
like there are ants building with decaying spittle
manky damaged mandibles                                      
                reforming my state   corrupted

'well enough to work' i battle the common workday
suffering routine habitually
breeding and fighting sickness within