In this room,
there is a desk I sit at,
a phone that I answer
-only when it rings-
and a dull sense of boredom that, despite aching
burns too slowly to create a fire.
I read a book, most days,
but others i’ll drag my pen across paper
either in creativity or requirement.
A lamp glows too harshly for my liking
next to me,
washing the entire room in yellow luminescence,
absorbed by the yellow walls.
Through the large bay windows I can see the wind howl between branches,
but the sound that reaches me is only the extravagance of a tv

too loud:
mumbled conversations that I do not pay enough attention to listen to.


I work in a place that is filled with quaint wood carvings and vintage artwork.
On the best days,
old woman sneak me as many cookies
as I gift to myself.
Every inch of this interior is coated with pine that I do not care for and a timeliness too comfortable to be liked.
And you,
I know have never been here
and never will be.
But maybe you could walk through those wide double doors
directly in front of my desk

To say something simply put

In the blunt English we have mastered.
Or maybe we will have to settle.


I have told you too much,
but not enough
Maybe, if you too are working,
you will see vaguely the same things as my eyes.
That same dull working ache sits in my heart,
but nevertheless I am thankful for the company
you have provided the mind.

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For The Misfits

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