I die a little every day
As I watch in fever-dream reality
The stream of my lifeblood trickle and fade away

Boxed in these four walls
The dusty panes, the peeling paint
The steps of those long-lifeless, echoing down the halls

Through the window to my right
A man screams into his phone
In clear frustration he talks about money, and what he calls civil plight

In the distance, sirens and ice cream bells wail
Background music to his political rant
He hangs up and I wonder if he got what he wanted, or if it was a fail

He retreats into his building, and the lump in my throat reforms
His performance so brief it made me forget, is over
And the emptiness inside quickly returns

The cream white paint, in the corner an ink stain
The desks, the files, they serve to remind me
I was never special, I am common, plain

It never really mattered what I was good at, what I knew
The world is such a big place
But has room for only few

The rest of us grovel and grab in desperate spree
We hack away at the best of ourselves
We even offer them for free

Anything for something a little stable
We kill for a place on the floor
For we’ll never get a seat at the table

I cut away, I divided all I had of me
Out-grovelled, out-ran, the thousands beside me
Just so They could have my bits, even if for free

All for a place on the pavement, on the floor
My reflection dulled and faded
I don’t know who I am anymore

Even my writing’s abhorrent, my poetry’s a mess
Rambles of verses dissonant
None worthy of print or of press

It’s been a while since I penned a rhyme
And I can’t believe it took feeling this way
To finally write down a poem

Chiseche

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