Life in a Cubicle

by | Aug 8, 2016 | Poetry | 0 comments

She rests her head, so heavy, so wearied on her fist
looking at her screen or way beyond the words
she tries to translate, or should she translate the signs–
That paper copy as plan B when too long have the eyes
been fixed on inkless words till no longer the eyes can see
a little bit of substance– a tangible meaning for today,
and a tomorrow that’s already seen as yesterday.

Her graceful fingers touch upon the paper like the wind
stripping an old tree from its dying leaves,
yet to shine again, there is still ahead a long winter
and words like splinters cut through all her senses
and the vestiges left from her femininity– not there today–
her hair held up like an uprising, revolting against nobody,
setting out to go nowhere. Yet, a pencil striking through
all that serenity, amidst a revolution where a hair is fighting a hair,
that long neck appears like a trunk that could carry the world
contracted in a cubicle– a cell soon to be called home–
all the seasons drop on her like fruits so tropical,
and waves of heat and cold bury her twentyish body old–
she keeps fluttering and covering herself up, yet
the weather is way deeper in her heart– it’s the same hot and cold
the so-called clouds are but a mere veil to a heart
dry thirsty to some heavy rain to quench a desert–
and some little tiny flowers can grow on her lawn again.

She decides to go– all is planned ahead
wishing that water dispenser could drip into her cup
like a patient’s serum, she could count them drop by drop–
she returns triumphant, but barely a minute or two have passed;
positive– my girl so smiles and re-sits on her chair planning
for the next big event when she could rid of what she got–
like life, all goes from spot to spot– no spot is filled
until another’s abandoned– like hearts with so many dwelling
and one place of honor and thrones are pushed aside everywhere–
all life in a moment so fathomed like water splashing into your face,
so sudden, so refreshing– you’ve been cautious away from the shore,
yet you don’t mind getting wet, bringing down your sand castle–
tomorrow’s another day; you could always re-build it anew.
Perhaps, the girl’s not doing all or any of that;
Perhaps, it’s just me, so living in a cubicle, seeing all that
so dying in a cubicle imagining all that–
amusing myself with a new story to get by another day.

0 Comments

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Want More Like This Post?

Poetry | What’s Wrong

In this episode, you will listen to five poems: Not Black from Chaos, I Wanna Outrun the World from Identity, The Social Bluff from The War Edition, Come Take Away from Juno, and Mighty Ulysses from The Scream. Audio Not Black – from Chaos Did you really think you can...

War Child from The War Edition Poetry Collection

Poetry | War Child Audio Poetry | War Child Transcript You’re all heroes fighting for freedom, honor and justice or whatever cause you might have believed is enough to take life until you kill a child. The bullet you send doubles back and hits your heart and damages...

A Bullet’s Life from Identity Poetry Collection

A Bullet’s Life Audio A Bullet’s Life by Danny Ballan Since they invented me, they have been using me to show off their power and solve problems they created. Believe me when I say I had nothing to do with all those monsters they created. After all, I’m just a tiny...