I'm in a foul little funk called 'Living'
Sometimes the best way to cope with it
is not to cope at all
I'll take my ball
and go home from an unfair game
slip through a door, unlocked
with tumblers turned by a chemical key

It sets a tremor creeping up my legs
like new ice crawling over a window pane
it pecks and plucks its way back down my spine
furtive, like raindrops down the glass
or an overambitious child,
talked down from the swaying, voraciously growing twigs
at the top of the tree.

There are moments
No, this is not one
But there are moments, when I see it all stretched out
When the nagging feeling
that it's all some cruel joke
Plants its feet
and puffs it's chest, hands akimbo
like a comic book hero
to proclaim that, yes indeed
the world does love kicking you when you're down.

And you do realize
that you're working hard to make someone else rich?
Yes, I realize.
And you realize
that you're paid by the plodding clock-tick hour?
Well, yes. Of course.

So you're selling your life.
Minutes and hours, true.
But you ARE selling your life. Your sweat and blood. And your time.
Your TIME. The only thing you'll never get any more of.

Yes, I realize.