well, fuck em.
they don't care if i starve on the streets, as long as i perform my function. they call me 'sir' but they mean 'servant'. we all know it - its corporate standard, it's everywhere, and i've seen it turn people into soul suckers that turn around and regard the needy as mere tools.
this is old debt, it has piled itself upon itself until last month when it finally blocked the distant glow of the light at the end of this tunnel. yeah so now i work in a position for which i've had specialized training. i'm the first one there in the cursed hours of pre-dawn morning. alone, i finish the job that the weakest link didn't finish, i clean up his mess, then do my job, then set up everyone else so they can do theirs, eat shit from assholes in dress shirts and dockers while i bite my tongue and swallow the blood. i do this for about 60 hours a week just to be this poor and then wonder if i can pay my rent.
fucked, tommy...proper fucked.
she's bailed me out before in tight times, and maybe its just the last remaining shred of dignity and pride that i wiped my feet on that makes me feel so lowly as i step aside and let her do it again. i didn't want it to come to this, but i couldn't talk her out of it. some say that's what mothers are for, that's what they do, but all i see is a pathetic man who can barely hold back from spitting in the face in the mirror. every day i try to keep in mind what i know, what i've learned, what i preach, but when it gets to this point the thoughts that were exiled come trickling back in, little demons, the ones you thought you'd eliminated--the ones you know you'll never entertain, the things that make you scare yrself. i hate this. all this over money...this pressure, this fear and stress and melancholy would be more self-respectable if it were over something i considered real.
transitions are painful.
so i went back. two days ago they rehired me, part time in the evenings until the pieces fall into place. i started working that night and worked again tonight. soon, the old lady who has worked there forever, the one who was the first person to train me in the kitchen, is finally retiring, mostly on her own volition. they want me to take her place, and i've already said i'd do it. hell, the man started me for more money than i'll ever make at the corporation, and when i go full time, he'll bump it up again. i know this place like i know my name. doesn't mean i wanted to be here again.
sure i'll get through this, but how many times must i put myself through this hell? this is the one cycle i can't seem to break. it sneaks up on me every time, and i know this is all my fault; of course it is! that's why i push everyone away at these times. i don't want yr help, i don't really need it; this is my mountain of my shit on my dinner plate on my table that i've set for one. for yr own sake, no one else is invited.
you'll see my smile again when i'm done.
goodnight.
they don't care if i starve on the streets, as long as i perform my function. they call me 'sir' but they mean 'servant'. we all know it - its corporate standard, it's everywhere, and i've seen it turn people into soul suckers that turn around and regard the needy as mere tools.
this is old debt, it has piled itself upon itself until last month when it finally blocked the distant glow of the light at the end of this tunnel. yeah so now i work in a position for which i've had specialized training. i'm the first one there in the cursed hours of pre-dawn morning. alone, i finish the job that the weakest link didn't finish, i clean up his mess, then do my job, then set up everyone else so they can do theirs, eat shit from assholes in dress shirts and dockers while i bite my tongue and swallow the blood. i do this for about 60 hours a week just to be this poor and then wonder if i can pay my rent.
fucked, tommy...proper fucked.
she's bailed me out before in tight times, and maybe its just the last remaining shred of dignity and pride that i wiped my feet on that makes me feel so lowly as i step aside and let her do it again. i didn't want it to come to this, but i couldn't talk her out of it. some say that's what mothers are for, that's what they do, but all i see is a pathetic man who can barely hold back from spitting in the face in the mirror. every day i try to keep in mind what i know, what i've learned, what i preach, but when it gets to this point the thoughts that were exiled come trickling back in, little demons, the ones you thought you'd eliminated--the ones you know you'll never entertain, the things that make you scare yrself. i hate this. all this over money...this pressure, this fear and stress and melancholy would be more self-respectable if it were over something i considered real.
transitions are painful.
so i went back. two days ago they rehired me, part time in the evenings until the pieces fall into place. i started working that night and worked again tonight. soon, the old lady who has worked there forever, the one who was the first person to train me in the kitchen, is finally retiring, mostly on her own volition. they want me to take her place, and i've already said i'd do it. hell, the man started me for more money than i'll ever make at the corporation, and when i go full time, he'll bump it up again. i know this place like i know my name. doesn't mean i wanted to be here again.
sure i'll get through this, but how many times must i put myself through this hell? this is the one cycle i can't seem to break. it sneaks up on me every time, and i know this is all my fault; of course it is! that's why i push everyone away at these times. i don't want yr help, i don't really need it; this is my mountain of my shit on my dinner plate on my table that i've set for one. for yr own sake, no one else is invited.
you'll see my smile again when i'm done.
goodnight.