Sitting in a cubicle all day, squinting at letters a feet away, my eyes ache to focus on things that are a horizon away. To leave, be not hemmed in by the familiar, not shackled to repetition.
And I sit at home, Bach playing, fan twirling, A perfect day for some writing. So, write, write, write! I command But the typewriter don't seem to understand. My fire is burnt, I need help. I'm free, but shackled to myself.
I left years ago. Can't be hemmed, I claimed. And figured the cubicle was never to be blamed.
And I sit at home, Bach playing, fan twirling,
ReplyDeleteA perfect day for some writing.
So, write, write, write! I command
But the typewriter don't seem to understand.
My fire is burnt, I need help.
I'm free, but shackled to myself.
I left years ago. Can't be hemmed, I claimed.
And figured the cubicle was never to be blamed.