in which a pitiful individul hates his jobA Poem by freelancejouster
dry hands tap black keys for the fifty-sixth day in a row, editing word by word, space by space, pixel by pixel, for the perfection that needs be acheived.
gasp. hope. scan. smile. split-second of self-indulcence. print.
a shuffle of feet to the printing paper, held tightly so the edges wrinkle, embarrassed, clammy hands wipe sweat on creased polyester, sheepish smile.
paper handed in like it's the cure to cancer, the obligatory scanning ends with a snobbish snort, the declining stamp whacked on with a splat, handed back to the pitiful individual who's finding it hard to work to the constant tune of "whack. whack. whack."
© 2012 freelancejousterFeatured Review
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StatsAuthorfreelancejousterWIAbouti'm a muppet with his secrets revealed. i'm a lost teenager. i'm a rugged adventurer. I'm a bumbling novice. i'm an awkward intellectual. i'm a tear-stained lover. i'm a starving artist. i'm an.. more..Writing
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