My alarm clock glaring at me in hard, red numbers Incessant ticking, counting down, while heading up Can't you see the irony to that?
Wish it wear as simple to pick those strawberries and dream. Yes. Dream. Because life tastes better without that sweet cloying cream. That's what the world tries to feed you, to hope you'll buy into its facade.
Shoes click in protest as your force your steady stride. Heels burn as you push the pavement, the grinding roll of crackling gravel signals the car. Push the brief through quickly. Work. A thing you do everywhere. It's not refined like you thought it'd be. Streamlined at modern.
Hands pulse with the heat, as if swollen with the effort of the pushed pen. Click. . Almost unconscious you continue, the head bobs up and down. Your wrists ache for a fulfilling charge, to tremble down the glass.
Confined
Turning in on yourself your still, not a sound escapes the crevice in which you are bound. The hole to which you so desperately cling, with its neat white walls, so sparsely modernistic furnishings of life.
And the walls press in, a cling film wrapper on bright gaudy Halloween sweets. A mockery of fate.
And the alarm for you to climb back into your crevice.