Like A Scone

The heat is preposterous.
I stood trying to cross the street for 5 minutes
baking.

This is not me.
It's a lovely day, and since when did I ever
not rejoice in a lovely day.

It is as lovely a day as there'll ever be.

I only hate it so
because I am cooped up in the office
weighted down by office wear
something heavy sits upon my shoulders

every morning I get in
wait patiently for lunchtime to roll by
then after that I come back in
sip copious amounts of orange-honey tea
as the clock
*tick tick ticks*
waiting for phang-kang to roll by

and as each day passes
I become increasingly numbed
my senses dulled
my spirit cornered
I don't want to write
I don't want to read
I don't want to do anything
but get out.

Each day, the certainty grows
threathening to overwhelm me
this is not me

The longer I allow myself to be shut-up in this here
building
the longer I allow myself to be bound
by these constraints
the more of me I will lose
the less time there will be
to be me

When I write,
I mostly write about my experiences
true, heartfelt interactions

But how do I do that when
I sit in the office
not a speck of sky in sight
and am comissioned to write of things
I do not experience?
My imagination does not travel to such lengths
and my skill does not enable me to transfer
imagined thought and feeling onto paper
in a manner which the reader will truly experience
and not say 'this is a crock of bullshit'

Forced into mediocrity
is hardly where I want to be

This is not me
this is not the life I want to be
I want to
no, I need to be
out there
every second
feeling, touching, tasting, smelling
brushing fingertips, touching hearts
soaking, sucking up each and every experience
not here.

And this is why
I've set the ball rolling
the wheels in motion
to get away,
and leave, live
soon.