6 December 2012
I scrape my living, Through some endless means, For mother and child, Unlike other teens. Don't come to me, All big and smart, Complaining of life, That to mine, is art. To earn that money, That forty-four grand, While I suffer, Barely able to stand. To say you work Too many hours, A day in lieu Is a required power. To lust after money, And passion for career, Whereas I want nothing But to keep my son near. To give him food, And fill his bottles, I would earn what you earn, Your podium topples. I sit on your throne, I throw you to beasts, They tear you apart, And I watch with a feast.
But could I really? I know I couldn't. To watch others suffer, My fault...I shouldn't. So I'll just listen, To you moan. No feeble response, No moan, no groan. Just hoping that soon, You hear yourself, And your inhibitions, To go live on a shelf.
Forty-four Grand • Opuss № I