When I lived in Chico California, back in 2007, I was working at a job that I – well – hated. I liked the people I worked with. I just felt trapped, bored, frustrated and useless. So I opened a Word doc and this is what I typed:
If this were a dream I’d be sinking, drowning or running in slow motion. It would be raining and I’d be lost, my car sliding out of control on a sheet of solid ice. I’d be biting my fingers or eating my hand. This is the opposite of learning. My poor brain needs oxygen. If I wrote a book it would be titled: How Working Here Is Destroying Me Little Brain. Needs are met but at the expense of Sanity Dollars or Coins of Hope.
I think I’m developing light sensitivity. My native language is not being spoken. I mean they’re speaking English but they’re making very small sense. If I drew a ‘how do I feel’ drawing it would be a picture of a sad face or a broken heart or hands without opposable thumbs.
If I thought screaming would help, I’d scream. If I thought aroma therapy would do it, I’d inhale. But I know I have to come back here tomorrow and the next day and the next day and then the following week. It is depressing. This place gives me excess yeast. And quite frankly I am saddened to my bones by my situation: a woman in her thirties working for $9 an hour, my BA in Anthropology sitting somewhere snickering in the recesses of my dusty apartment. My student loan deferred singing to the tune of “Hit me baby one more time.” My country? These United States. I have no excuse.
You know, poetry is kind of a distillation of sorts, the essence of words used to convey Feeling. And since I don’t have any crayons and I’m not dreaming (yup, barely awake), I could just, well, write. I could “express myself” with words, in Poem. It would be like I was baking bread, making something, doing something besides sitting here. I’d be kneading, creating an aroma, a comforting smell, I’d be eating soon. Yes.
Vampire
Succubus
Leech
Drain
My
Soul
Stab
Me
Repeatedly
Drain
My
Creativity
Living undead
Paper pusher
Lie back in my coffin
Clock watcher
Best years of my life
Best years of my life
Best years of my life
My life
The meetings
Meetings of mindlessness
Meaningless meetings
A puddle of saliva hits my arm
The tomb
Is cold
It’s Halloween every day
Its office work
>>>i’m truly sorry about any bs ad that WP put on my blog without my consent. not me, okay!<<<
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