(no subject)
I've been M.I.A. lately due to a terrible writer's block. It's been hell.
in this office, everything seems small.
with grey metal desks and squeaky
office chairs that have just passed
their tenth anniversary of being overused.
the trash cans are miniature, coming up
to my shins with oversize kitchen bags
reaching the floor. large computer monitors
take up half of the scuffed desks, over
flowing with papers and pens, red and black.
empty white walls close in from every angle
of the room, barely covered with five large
bare calendars.
reporter number one sits behind her desk,
only her head visible over the phone
with too many buttons. reporter number two
crouches over the keyboard, typing
as she looks up every few minutes
to the hate mail taped to the wall above.
reporter number three fiddles with the office camera.
a paper above his desk reads "insert social life here."
reporter number four is missing in action.
no sign of life except for the fast food containers
laying on the floor and well-used phone book
on its stomach.
reporter number five sits, his face towards the only
window, his pants creeping above his ankles
and his back arched over the desk. he towers
above his monitor, listening to the police
scanner with a lackadastical smirk. he swings
his feet up on to the desk and leans back
in his chair, covering an entire corner.
larger than life, he knows he is getting out alive.
in this office, everything seems small.
with grey metal desks and squeaky
office chairs that have just passed
their tenth anniversary of being overused.
the trash cans are miniature, coming up
to my shins with oversize kitchen bags
reaching the floor. large computer monitors
take up half of the scuffed desks, over
flowing with papers and pens, red and black.
empty white walls close in from every angle
of the room, barely covered with five large
bare calendars.
reporter number one sits behind her desk,
only her head visible over the phone
with too many buttons. reporter number two
crouches over the keyboard, typing
as she looks up every few minutes
to the hate mail taped to the wall above.
reporter number three fiddles with the office camera.
a paper above his desk reads "insert social life here."
reporter number four is missing in action.
no sign of life except for the fast food containers
laying on the floor and well-used phone book
on its stomach.
reporter number five sits, his face towards the only
window, his pants creeping above his ankles
and his back arched over the desk. he towers
above his monitor, listening to the police
scanner with a lackadastical smirk. he swings
his feet up on to the desk and leans back
in his chair, covering an entire corner.
larger than life, he knows he is getting out alive.