Cracking

Splintered fingers,
a dull box
cutter,
disposable pen,
no refills required,
caffeine surge,
sentences
stutter.

Pissed off
like a drunk fuck,
product damage,
written off,
struggling with sanity,
lack of productive time
left in the day.

Clock in,
clock out,
question vanity;
a poor man
molded of glass and clay.

The day finds its end
typing to the toll of five,
working in this minimum wage
Hell;
I used to feel alive.