It starts the night before when you forget to reset the alarm, and it just doesn’t get any better as you race for the train; realise you’ve left your security card at home…and miss the last cheese scone from your favourite cafe. In a world that doesn’t wait for us, life can feel start to feel like never ending grind.
On account of the fact that burning my hand yesterday with boiling water washed away any inspiration to write. At least I can type one handed!
I have trawled through the archive to find something to post. This one has a very deep cynicism about the futility of what we are sometimes paid to do, and how it feels to do it.
Fluorescent Sun Times have changed so much Or so they say. But we are still chained To the wheel, just in different ways. Selling each word produced To buyers in a market Where they only pay for half-truths, reduced. Tap, tap, tapping Under a fluorescent sun Doing what I’ve always done. Keeping my head down Not rocking the boat In my corporate uniform Costumed, feeling like a clown.
Angele Toomey Poetry 