This is me.
Broken by the trusting of black-hearted commissions.
The decision has become my economic submission.
I’m a fish on dry land.
The donkey chasing the carrot.
Grasping for a needle in a wet haystack.
My intuition gone.
Replaced by the brace of the handheld drone called my phone.
Leading down alleys and doors.
Made to look even more deplorable.
I scrub at the dirt of my oppressive force.
Hoping it won’t keep me consistently sore.
I’d like to say I’d rather be poor.
But look at my bank account and your eyes will see the red score.
I’m not poor, I’m broke.
Everyone makes me the bunt of their jokes.
Released on Babbling of the Irrational Mind