Toil
Here is to you my fellow sapien,
who like I, continues to toil day in and day out
with a bowl of cold spaghetti inside your skull
and a heart that quivers with impatience and is covered in hair
from being dropped on the cold linoleum floor
of a florescent bright 7-11 on a cold and bitter night
when the wind howls just to mock you
in your insignificance amongst all of this
where you are but a mere drop in the ocean
and your mind can’t scream
when you are expected to dress clean
and be polite and don’t make waves
for the man will pin you down
and scrape your chin on the ground
under the hard heel of his boot
and now taste the cold switchblade
that carves between your ribs
as you plead for him to stop
as you beg for him to see the light
to look into his heart and uncover the truth
that he is nothing more
but a skittering mouse on the floor
of the great Mohave
looking for a seed
in your time of need
whilst the viper smells you out
and twitches in the drought
and you know he does not hear
your call or smell the fear
that leaves a metallic taste in your mouth
like iodine in a glass of milk
it is time that you break the grip
and bust them in the lip
to send them on a trip
where the blood will always drip
into the pale and chalky dirt.
