Fly Out 

It’s not the pretty fun path, but it feels like the right one. All these years I was mistaken. I thought by guiding my ambition through the swamps of conformity that I would arrive. There standing in the terminal with all my bags I look around at misery. 

Carts pushing and eyes closing and nicely dressed fiends. Confused in our own web of striving that we transform into a shell. Instead of flying off we stay back with the dead. Watching our world crumble we stand luke warm in this puddle that some wizard thought up. 

Working 60 hour work weeks, not seeing families and putting off dreams. 1 hour breaks become 45 minutes and full-time positions shifted to 3 part-time jobs. All to meet shrinking prices. We buy our hunger. I turn around and take the next plane, anywhere is better than hanging with this lot.    

    
 

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