Today's prompt was to write a poem with this title (fill in your own blank) and go on from there. Admittedly I didn't have any time to work on this and had to go with my first thought... wasn't hard to come up with the rest - many of my years have been spent in various cubicles...
The problem with this job
is it’s time-consuming, soul-sucking,
foot on your neck and stomping,
control-freaking, unappreciative,
sameness, to what end? Cubicle
living grayness, day-after-day, week-
after-week, dragging yourself there-
and-back for a paycheck that’s spent
before you get it anyway, how did I
get here? seemingly necessary
madness…
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