Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

9-5

The telephone cord is a chain,

I am raining on the inside,

storms in my chest,

spreading to the rest of me,

that’s never restful,

on these stressful days,

that seem to last for ages,

raining rage on my desk,

trapped by obligation,

trying to survive,

salaried per second,

waiting for the welcome collapse,

of five PM.

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