9 to 5, 3 to 11, graveyard shift
lunch with the moon and stars
and a few red skeletons
dead to the world and themselves
it’s all the same to me
lining up to punch a clock?
where’s any freedom in that rote by note?
I’d rather punch myself in the head
spend the day watching thunderstorms gloom & boom
from the sacred chamber of my room
or be beachside buzzed and listening
waves crashing, tides coming and going
or listening to forest- whistle crack howl
may not have much to my name
but I don’t have made-up deadlines to meet
fake camaraderie of the office jungle
working with the stab-in-the-backers
no mortgage to worry about either
just a ‘cozy’ next to a car lot
no car payments, no insurance
I find the odd job here and there
I get enough food to fill my stomach
with a little drink or two on the side
walking past the pines and the oaks
life can be simple
that’s freedom in my dictionary
I walked away from the one world gone crazy entered another below the s.o.p.
I’ve been above and didn’t like the view
my home is where my feet are
next to an ocean, mountain, or highway
that’s pure, baby
