Polishing elbow grease

Resilient and totalled. The more tragic the better.
Slipping into the fog of the everyday.
Scratching out words on my chest that read ‘subservient’.
Feeling the need to speak a little less often?
Scrolling and sighing, the faceless ghosts who rush through me.
Unsure of which direction.
My own uncertainty.
Yet asking assistance means I’m incapable?
You expect me to get up like them, sit down and in line colour.
To work for money I do not need. What types of people would I be dealing with anyway?
Like me? My tribe? I wonder and I think not.
If I were less filled with fire. Dripping in normalcy.
Cut off from my soul and dead from the waist down.
Then I would be joining them.

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