Jul 18
Eightball | Original Poem
Fired. Again. No fault of my own. (mostly) There are bills to pay On repeat. Harsh reality. No room to breathe Or give social battery rechargeability. Running on burnt out mode All the time. Shake the magic eightball. “Try again.” For fuck sakes, This was useless And pointless. What was I actually doing with My life? Endless work around, For what? Take it as a sign. The number that looks Like an infinity sign. Burns into my eyes. Pushes my aching body Across a temporary finish line. Maybe it was my fault. I’m unpleasant to Be around. The dominos beg to Fall in line Every moment of the day. Here we go again. I guess.