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.
