I can’t remember arriving to work because I wasn’t paying attention.
I know the road far too well to plan it to perfection.
I don’t know the date, but it’s been 52 weeks of reflection.
My existence in the hands of this world.
I felt it when I left High School, who am I kidding? I felt it when I began.
That I was being conditioned and moulded into the gang.
One in the same, all statistics on the page, and they told me to quit the stage.
Am I happy?
I ask myself this every day as I walk through the doors,
Hey not bad for a Monday, thank god its Friday echo in the halls.
Living for the weekend, shut the fuck up, I whisper to it all.
And I stare outside of my glass walls, hearing birds call,
And wonder is it supposed to feel this cold?
The sun is shining and it’s almost smiling with glee,
Smiling down at me, like it’s condescending my thoughts,
It’s all about me.
They preach instead of teach,
And never practice what they do,
In the name of the game “it’s all about you.”
And I’m writing on a Monday while everyone complains the weekend’s are too short,
And I’m still writing on a Friday complaining the weekends are too long.
Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?
Surely none of us want to live this way,
Repeating the same routine, another bloody Monday.
So here we are waiting for nothing,
Buying time for the things we really want to do,
And when the time comes when our kids ask “can I be this?”
We will smile and lie, “honey you can be whatever you dream, just do what you want to do.”