pack it in

cycling through the day
a life set on repeat
but for the chance to break
this everlong
creatively explode from this 8-5
shatter the glass windscreen oppressing me
sounds exaggerated
"it’s a job mate"
"cameron’s britain"
so what did i work for?
write books for?
studiously devote for?
long way off now my friends

into the darkness
swallowing me whole
my creativity dredged from my bed
no love and no fucking happens here
only the space to remind
only the view of the campus through the window
'not here anymore are you'
gone to pay the bills on another day
no clever wordplay or shakespearean lilt
just plain ol’ fucking english
litters my tongue

i can’t even pack it in and go home
this is my home
im already packed
i already gave in
this is the ‘simple’ life
this is the uncomplicated
this is fucking bullshit

2 maybe 300 jobs
no replies
no possibility of an exit
wounding my artists soul
bleakening the road ahead
same old shit different day seems so bitter
dusting the effervescent glaze over my eyes

ive given up
ive packed it in

i need help