I feel infinitely young

Young and lost,

Colorlessly living,

Surreptitiously dying.

Writing verses in an office

That gets on my intestines,

Like a mediocre meal

Where the cook didn’t wash their hands

It’s rotting me from the insides.

 

Days become insurmountable,

This modern subjugation,

The subtle violation,

The green in your hands.

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Today was my last day at a job I quit. I feel sad, but not as sad as when I wrote this poem.