texts.katyism.com

The man with the little plastic car 
is screaming at the top of his lungs 
to HOLD THE ELEVATOR
but the elevator does not come...

I am trapped on this fifth floor 
inferno, my lungs breathing rotting 
plastic... if plastic rots at all-
and this fallen angel, demon, megadrien
who calls itself my friend 
is running around 
trapped in its own version of purgatory.

I wish I was religious, so I could mourn 
my salvation, so I could feel sorry 
for everything I've done wrong...
but hey- we all make our own decisions

I didn't decide to die for me, 
but I sure am happy that someone did.

The boy who works in the office 
down the corridor, down the "scottish way"
over the lochs and past the dry erase board
is boring me to death, when everything he says 
has to do with not knowing my name...
and I have to make due with what he calls me.

Every day, I wake up with another reason 
to draw a picture on a little 
yellow sticky note, and stick it somewhere 
where no one else will ever bother to look
for something so strange, something so 
beautiful.

I wish I could be at home right now 
so I could mourn every penny I didn't make 
in the 45 minutes it took me to ride the bus, 
in the 15 minutes it took me to find the keys 
and unlock the door, 
so I could smell your garlic pizza too...

I think maybe the bump on my head grows 
with every day of pain, 
they say that I took out a chunk 
of the door frame, 
as well as a chunk of my head...
maybe I DO have a concussion...
maybe I don't... 
or maybe this is just another way 
for me to pay my dues 
to all the people who wish 
that I was a part of their cult...

the cult of being cool...

The man with the plastic car 
is wandering around outside 
in the rain, waiting for his bus, 
that never comes, while I'm waiting 
for the winged chariot mercury 
to come and usher me away 
to someplace safe and dry...

the cubicle forest perhaps?