Unemployed

Hook me up to an IV filled with a future.
Mine bled out on the side of highway 163.
My career was amputated, but still I feel the phantom limbs.
I free-fall into a narcotic haze: my pillow.
Isn’t there a pill for this?
Please, please don’t leave me stripped without my working skin.
My insides are empty. EMPTY I SAY!
I scream with no voice.
How then do I explain it to all the well-meaning masses who
offer up their impotent platitudes and prayers? Yes, God, I think their prayers are feeble.
Here I am two years down the road yet still lying broken, screaming, and
bleeding out my future into the red dirt of Monument Valley.

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