Data Analyst

Life Poem

No direction.
An insect at a desk.
Knowing better,
but settling for much less.
Scared to death
of breaking the silence.
If this is life
then tell me,
why
is it so –
lifeless.

I’m a victim,
just a glitch
in the system.
My last attempt
to find vision
is by crying for help
through the vents
of this prison:

“This isn’t life, it’s existence!”
But no one listens.

If a data analyst falls in the office,
does he make a sound?
I have my doubts.
I’ll be carried neatly away
and replaced the next day,
by someone more willing
to play by the game.
They’ll say that I’m missed,
I’ll stay on their list,
but they won’t remember
my name.
In a matter of days I’ll have ceased to exist
it’s –
such
a shame.

more by LUCAS HOWARD

photograph by Startup Stock Photos

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