01 August 2007

[ poem ]

This building is sick; it seeps out of the walls,an accumulation of a hundred frustrated lives spent working corridors, shuffling in hush puppies.like a naughty child bearing the weight of judging eyes. I ain't cut out for this concentration-camp existence; Walls make me panic, barriers trip me up. Sometimes can't get nothing straight; thoughts collide and make orphans of good intentions.

If I cut myself open and bleed all over your filing cabinet, can I please go home?