Pick Me

My feet come to a screeching halt. All the things that marked my hands with X’s to success left me startled. I looked around as if at a concert where the music was more like cats scratching on a chalk wall. With everyone sat glazed eyes, I grab my bag to go. 

All those degrees and experiences compound to false reality. Waiting in line at the auction for what was once a sense of identity. Staying between the lines but not on them. Who taught us how to manufacture disordered order?

Numbing the mind with over stimulation. Accepting our sentence  breed as cattle to the university of corporate slaughter. Were we ever taught to think? Or did we trade that in with our prestigious degrees?  

I took all the business books out of my room.


I made a notebook called my Happiness Journal. Found a book declutter my mental space.


Doing activites that nourish and recharge through the arts and fitness.


Writing dear friends to let them know I care.


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