The death among the toner cartridges By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
It's a mundane sort of hell.
There's a mug waiting for you
in the canteen cupboard.
There are people who know whether you take sugar in your tea,
how much milk you have
in your coffee.
Your computer has desktopwallpaper
you picked for yourself.
There are appraisals, and sometimes biscuits.
You get a card on your birthdays,
scribbled with a score of
sincere, benevolent,
utterly generic messages.
It would be all right, if it
wasn't so awful, if it
wasn't so meaningless, if it wasn't so
always the same for the rest of your life.
But it pays the bills,
almost.
Your boss has told you you've got
management potential.
It's a steady income.
In a few years, you'll qualify for
the pension scheme.
We don't all get to be astronauts.
And besides, there's always alcoholism to fall back on.
The prospect of this orderly, straightforward, functional future
stretching away into the waning grey distance
has the brain shutting down,
synapse by synapse.
Nothing bright or unpredictable
can happen anymore,
not inside this
standardised skull.
You're not getting paid enough for this.
Get out.
Get out before they drive you sane.
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