the realization of numbers
descending
away
hasn't dawned in her  
mind's matter of
gray

if she doesn't wake up
from complacency's
story
there will be nowt left
on the listing's
inventory

it'll be too late when we're
all looking for a
job
due to us not having
goodly figures in the
mob

surely she can sense  
our positions are at
stake
as the total amount has
become an
earthquake

under previous heads
we've not felt
insecure
but with her holding
the reins we're in
manure

for over seven months
she's buried her
head
like the ostrich who can't
see impending
dread

it is perfectly plain
to everyone else
around
that the units have
slipped onto the
ground

she'll open the file
which will say all
absent
the last manager was
a little too
complacent

How can I not dream big
In this lackluster life of mine?
Overwhelming fear forces my hand
To play against any notion that this is it.
An artist, a writer,
A musician, a scientist
I'll take anything to get me out
Away from this life that is so called Mine.
To finally get the chance at an exhale
And have it not be my dying breath
I have to do something
Why must dreams only exist in my sleep?
I have to wake up.
I have to live.

Console and release my pain to another place
For my head is filled with dread all the time
Though the experience is going paced
I realize my future looks like grime

Emotions run through my veins seeking peace
Momentary recognition fo life
Regrets and lamentations that wont cease
Panic struck bravery with a sharp knife

Reluctance shared our circumstances
It gave a condescending and proud smile
Took a risky and desperate chance
Acceptance was ignored by denial

Suddenly the mind lifted the black fog
And restored a brightness that once more came back

Time is such
an imp,
such a
prankster.

When something
fearful
is to come,
he skips
and races
just out of reach,
until,
in chasing him,
suddenly,
multiple weeks have passed
without realizing.

But if you're
highly anticipating
an event,
he ambles along
tripping you up
over and over,
and you wonder
how it could possibly still be the same day.

Does he find our frustration amusing?

I could wake up next sunday, just maybe
if i make it through these weekend nights.
Anyone could tell me about what I should do,
but maybe I wouldn't push and pull through.

It's a different story, one I couldn't write anymore.
Somber's all I am recently, wish I could be sober.
It's hard to get up in the morning and not wish
to have so much more I could do about all this.

And I've paced my elbow room a couple times,
it feels like I'm a stranger in my own company.
Been vexed by the holy ghost behind my back
about faith I don't have and a father I can't see.

Won't take you a miracle, they told me once.
Said the cigarettes and lighters would suffice.
There's also the aftertaste of saturday's vices,
you'd know how hard it is, wanting to just go.

Because everytime I've told anyone otherwise,
I'm no longer surprised to be called thankless.
Though I've settled with pennies for thoughts:
my talk's cheap, arms open, but i'm still selfish.

Rid the virtues from my system, all but patience,
since I've been waiting on all my oppurtunities
but not for the home I've settled to call my own.
There's a way, I know, that's not how I want to go.

Today, I cried when someone asked about my day
because I've been like this whole weekends long.
My thousand tiny terrors yet again take their toll.
Wait for my sunday matinee, it's the last you'll see.

Dressed in black,
What can you lack
in a monochrome world?
Your eyes weep glass
As your lovers pass
What you remember you dread
Inside your throbbing head!