A kinda sad, dismal poem.

The businessman walks, briefcase swaying in time
each step of his leather shoes
each reading of the daily news
is steady and flowing with well planned out rhyme

everything he’s done, he’s done before
the streets he walks
the language he talks
all part his repeating musical score

the rut he’s traveled is worn out and deep
no hope for salvation
no time for variation
change is not in his schedule, he has appointments to keep

the work day will end, time to get out
into his car, shiny and red
into his pajamas, then off to bed
tomorrow’s the same, without a doubt

Submitted: July 15, 2010

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Nick done it

arnt jobs depressing., nice poem.

Thu, July 15th, 2010 4:56am



Mon, July 19th, 2010 1:55am

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