i so feel like rotting at home with nothing to do

but... its all but a skewered dream.

as i look to my sides, and open the drapes of the soul
bastions of stuff strewn across my room envelope me
then i think to myself, where am i?

the scheduling of a scripted life
ever so often, the feeling of strife
heaps of documents, to read and proofread
never enough time, to give in to my needs
the light on the screens, with a billion words
the work load that i tasked others, is in one word absurd

i dont know that what i did was right or wrong,
but for this i know, its sure our swan song
tired to change the dated point of views
only to bang upon the fated wall of truth
the words of others ring deeply in my head
for each painful step, that we trudged ahead

a mammoth task for an unwary soul
the seeking of bliss; a fool's gold
tarry no more, as i sleepily type
theres sure more to come, midnights of skype

if only i could get rid of all these things
then i would surely become the king
yet now, a slave like the string of the bow
27 more weeks, to beloved WEEK 0.

i wonder... i really do...


i am just ... weird
who understands me?

And I realized...
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