In the Glassbox

This is a small poem I made during my work on a Sunday. I wrote it under the impression of a weak realationship. I like working at my job, at times. but other times I am in an inner turmoil of contemplating a return to this life and ultimately resolves with a determination to seek change and not be reduced to the desperate state imposed by my job. At least that’s what I’ve tried to say. I hope you enjoy:

Someday, in the glassbox, I hear you call out my name,

Hoping and praying that I would come, Back again?

Back to the waves and waves

Of pissed-off faces and minimum wage,

Back to going around and sucking up

As much fungal green as they come.

Back again?

No, I won’t come back, not to this,

Not in the way you’d see me.

If I leave, I leave.

If I come back, I’ll come back changed.

Someday in the Glassbox,

I will hear my name,

But not from this, this creature you address to me.

This is me leaving, dead and gone.