Cubical Blues Poem by Kevin Patrick

The Tie that knots around your neck
Performs exactly like a noose
It hides away the subtle dents
Comprising you to feel obtuse

In gold cufflinks you craft a face
Spending lunch hours on fostered postures
Meticulously building traits
Denying the fact that you’re an imposter

Cars galore you show the statues
To reach towards the great escape
Though nothing is quite ideally
And gold watches can’t keep you safe

You worked so hard to build this life
The perfect house on the private street
That now you are a figments wife
A marionette inside a set piece

With age come piles of sarcasm
Fresh debts of dreams begin to rise
As bourbon fills the Friday chasm
Cancelling the golden year’s prize

Now the strain starts to take its toll
With all the formal etiquette
Nothing retracts from being old
As pawns divulge to times as cynics

Sweat conjugates down your shoulders
Anxiety stumbles on the formal
Still you pretend at water coolers
That everything is perfectly normal

So why dont you get back to the cubicle