when I grew up I became a writer,
and at the same time all other
pursuits faded and floundered,
crumpling and whimpering like
puppies made of paper thin rose petals.

all my time is spent in thought,
warm wet puffy clouds of insight;
when I emerge in the light
of day with the mere mortals
chewing their complacency
like doe eyed, robotic cows,
my hands shake and my words run together.

I am too busy for the nonsense people call the daily grind,
that 9-5 mentality and the routine, oh the routine,
where we do what we hate so we have ten minutes to do
what we love and who we love.

Can't someone propose that we can do what we love
and get paid to do so, paid horrendously delicious amounts of money,
that would make basketball players blush and drug dealers cry?

For now I will take charge of this joblessness and settle into
my thoughts where I am free to roam
past streets filled with people waving at me and cheering me on;
I'll work your 9-5, and I'll spend a hearty 11 minutes
pouring my soul into my writing.

Sorry I'm late to work again.