"Running out the clock"
is maybe the most common term
in American working life.
Trapped, financially imprisoned
between four walls of servitude
on a late Friday afternoon,
we wait impatiently
for our parole from the crimes
our owners regularly commit.

If I had want of anything
In the entire world,
It would be of hands,
That mold clay into shapes.
Shapes that serve a function.
Shapes that piece together,
The fragments of hope,
You forfeit to despair.
For it is hands alone!
That knead tirelessly,
That truly make the world move.
Not wit, charm,
Nor these majestic tapestries of words.

I love talking to you
about how your hands got full of grease at work
I love talking to you
about how you want to raise our children on your grandmas farm
I love talking to you
about the amazing scrambled eggs you make
I love talking to you
about how you love when I stroke the hair behind your ear

and I also love talking to you
about how your boss gives you too much work
and about how you can't sleep at night
and about how much your father pisses you off
and about how much you miss your grandpa
and about your horrible coughing fits

I wanna hear about small victories throughout the day
I wanna hear about what you ate for dinner
I wanna hear about your favourite shirt getting ruined
I wanna hear about the kittens you found behind your house

I want to know you
and talk to you
and listen to your stories
because I love you

Nobody dreams anymore when they sleep
How they wake to find
That their dreams of the day are not met
Will not meet
How long will this nightmare continue to be?
Like a daily life with eyes wide shut
Squeezing tightly until its extinguished from me

Of Dreams

Laziness is attacking me.
We arm wrestled yesterday.

It tried to hit me with that limp wrist trick
but I slammed its hand down and broke its fingers.

I don't play that shit.

Go hard even at home.

‘Smile is infectious’
Said the first slide.
By the twenty-fourth, realized
Yawn is infectious too.

Alexander Nov 11

Blood and bone be my witness,
The heart is struck with great an illness.
Waste, is her name.
The time of day would go away just as it came.

Seeing the hours tick
And hearing my watch’s click,
Would give me more reason
To accuse my mind of high treason.

Its only duty is to obey me,
And yet my ideas drift, as though they were on sea.
Strange is this mind.
Too often cruel, rather than kind.

my first job;
I worked with an over abundance of cunts

my second job;
I worked with even bigger cunts,
perhaps some of the worst
I have ever encountered

my third job;
I worked with some cunts,
mostly party animals
and some I even consider
to be family

....and now,
I work with depressingly tedious cunts
who deplete my soul from the inside out
to where I can no longer feel the warmth.

it’s uncertain where
my next source of
income may take me
but one thing is for sure,
I know if I don’t take
and guts
with me to conquer
the fear of change
I’m going to once again
work with cunts

the workforce can be a real
dreary place to feel inspired.

be careful who you surround
yourself with...
you don’t want to end up dead
before death actually comes to find you.

The great woods are
But a memory to me
Of a time when my words clung to the branches of trees
Before the fall
Great indeed for their inherent value
For their intrinsic worth
Were such words and such times to me

I need to walk that path again.
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