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Im Scorched

A burnt yellow in disregard

for daily tasks, and words.

I hate them. It's all I can muster.

I follow quickly behind the yawn that folds me over

my desk; in hibernation against the world.

All the while the paperwork bellowing like hounds

searching for my fingertips to clickity clack

on that damn keyboard until they are reposed in straight stacks

Sometimes I wish god had granted me more looks that brains,

I could be all baby, I'm the dream you have yet to dream

and ofcourse with my femme fatale looks he would let me into his banking account....

But, no. I'm all here like the steriotypical angry feminist

Working because it's woman's right to work and what not.  

and chugging coffee and overdosing on tender sarcasm reserved for the boss's back.

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