Dear Office Dead-Weight,

You disgust me…I think.

Photo by Spencer Russell on Unsplash

I had high hopes for you
being shiny and new; potential
to care, unlike this jaded crew.
We could collaborate! Open
an idea floodgate — I was certain
that would be our fate.

Who is this guy? I wondered
inside, his smile is big — it meets
his eyes. His demeanor is cheery
(a good trait in theory)
And yet — I find myself weary.

You complain too much, work
too little; at best, your statements
are brittle and they always belittle.
Was it fair for me to hope
you’d care? Was it stupid to dare
to believe you’d do more than
breathe air?

It pays the bills you say, when
asked about your workday,
but what are you doing
to earn that pay? What little work
you do, comes to me to redo
while you enjoy another brew.

Are you actually a genius?
sly with your idiot sweetness, while I
set impossible bars with my keenness
and drown in the work, while you
play with your penis? Sure —
this industry’s lame, but the product
carries my name — and that’s one
thing I refuse to shame.


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