The Pointlessness of a Small Apartment and a Job I Love

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking hard about how weird our materialistic world is.

Submitted: March 08, 2013

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Submitted: March 08, 2013



Days pass and time will fade,

ever to sing this ridiculous serenade.

Feeling worthless and underpaid,

the possibility of happiness exists without an upgrade.



Rusted chemical of caked-on dreams,

often the road is far from what it seems.

There is a question of what redeems,

when all we know is the art of these daydreams.



Mother nature makes an enemy of apathy,

says it's the only way to never live happily.

Yet trap, trap we do, with a deep salary,

and a fetish for the factory.



Twenty-four rushed seven time chunks of work week,

is it any wonder we drink,

or worthless to wish for a teacher asking us to think?

This D marks nothing but a system set to "sink".



Childhood managed to be intense in laughter,

where has that gone in the subsequent hereafter?

Some kooks believe in the rapture,

how fun would be it be to watch the scatter and blood spatter?



But I don't believe in prophecy or the antithesis of Christ,

only in our power to be simply enticed,

by the dumb and rotted goods over-priced,

I don't desire a two dollar towel but a human tryst.



When given the chance all people are whole,

the problem is when they try to fit a role.

Never has the desire been so for population control,

when we stop believing in Santa at the North pole.







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