The Murder Machine

It’s hard to find inspiration
When everything around you
Is so lacking in colour.
Grey desks and tan walls
I try to glance out the window
To see splashes of sunlight
Woven into creamy clouds
Against a waking sky
Blades of grade waving
To bowing trees.
But now they’ve
Shoved my head
Back in their texts
Black and white pages
And a smell of magazine paper.
How can I write
In this factory?
Yes, a factory-
Predicted product: medical workers and politicians
Main product: apathetic authors and melancholy musicians
Who start their life
With dreams of love and fame
But find themselves
In the gray box of a cubicle
When they should be
Passed out on a tour bus
In the middle of the day.
They (the factory workers) tell us
Life isn’t fair
You’ll get what you deserve
And above all else,
Above happiness and love
Think practically
Because it’ll take you far
Farther than passion or friendship.
Grey and tan
Black and white
Colours of success
Ignore the creative drain
Just be a cog
In this factory.


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