Office ManYou praise yourself up in the air,
Pretending to be high and mighty -
You run, run, run around like a banshee.
Having no concept of personal space,
You demand to be addressed as Mr. President,
But you're a clerk in a Versace sweater.
You say: 'I'm no God's gift to mankind',
Walking around talking money -
You cover up your insecurities,
With a blanket of fast moves and twitches.
By barking like a rabid dog, your noise
Overpowers the gestures of your uptight body.
So, we sit here between four walls,
while you lecture me about common sense -
your arguments mixed with logic, oppress.
Your eyes are empty, they have no room for play.
Commanding officer - we are not in the army,
You, are not an armoured battle tank.
Like a crack on a broken flatscreen
You hurt the eye, but can't be tossed away -
So I avoid you, as if I'm a civilian
Stuck in a bunker, you - being the enemy soldier.
I hope one day, you will look back
And realise that life is nothing but a mirror.
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 577 times
Written on 2018-06-22 at 22:19
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