I hold no delusions of career
I am living on my ceiling
Hanging tough
Waiting
For the axe-man to greet me
Don’t read me the wrong way
This is no ode to regret
Ambition deficient
I had not the desire
To sell my soul
It’s not that I’m not hungry
My appetite for life
Means I feast aplenty
Their menu seemed bland
So I cater for myself
I’ve often been half baked
Looking good
But raw
And soft inside
So easily distracted
Weak to their concentrate
My identity and integrity
Could not be distilled
I became rich with memory
Enjoying the chaotic
That freeing spontaneity
Of living in the moment
I have no use for could of beans
I made this stew
Simmering till I'm done
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem