I walk in the call center
wearing my headphone gear
With sweaty palms and nervous voice,
I ask myself what am I doing here?
I trip over a chair in a cramped work space
Soon a customer will be yelling in my ear
A call center is a revolving door
As easy as it was to get hired,
it's just as easy to get fired
A lady whispered in my ear,
you need to quit this job, my dear

The Grim Reaper walks into the room
calling out a name to meet his or her doom
His tall pale skeletal figure slithers about in the room
while he chooses those who he deems to be doomed
Nothing gets past the Reaper as he searches his prey
The Reaper must be vigilant lest someone try to get away
With a grin on the face, the Reaper has no words
for you to embrace, but we all know the Reaper
must be put in his place

O' stranger of night, you intrigue me.
          Night by night, I listen to your symphony.

Fingers on the string, you play on and on,
         until the twilight break of the dawn.

Your passion for music never quenches,
          it is deeper than the deepest trenches.

Monsoon, winter, autumn or summer,
          you hum like a sweet bird hummer.

I listen to thee, day and night,
          if you stop, I pine for your voice's light.

Its not love, its not lust,
          its a passion for thee, understanding this is a must.

Words flow like a stream when I think of you,
          to me, your music of strings is as silent as a coo.

The music you make is like a prayer to me,
          being blind doesn't deter the spirit of your symphony.
                                                                        
                                                                               -PSYCHOTIC POET