My Grey Cubicle

I'm in this little cubicle,

Stuck like everyone else,

But unlike theirs mine is painted in bright patterns on gray.

Just so you know,

Sometimes it feels good to be here;

I work a lot to keep it shiny and bright,

I talk to that big fat lizard.

Oh, it has opinions alright!

Not so enlightening though

But interesting all the same.

At other times it grows really

Hot and messy;

Chaos everywhere.

I say "fuck that chaos, I can't take it anymore

I must resign".

But they pay a lot you know!

My cubicle grows more messy with the time.

Lots of papers floating here and there,

Ready to be written down.

Some sharp pins,

Pinching like rose-thorns ,

Clinging on to dusty old photographs on the wall.

And, oh yes, pots and pots of dark black ink

Dark as you can ever imagine.

My cubicle is my head you see!

A place that you might never get to be,

But try you must to get there.

Who knows you may find your missing file

One or two

Tucked underneath my large piles,

Safe and secure.

My cubicle is painted in bright patterns of grey.

My recluse, my pain, my salvation,

All too bright.

If you get to there it's all yours.

I'll resign then;

No more a prisoner of my own device.

Paint then your walls as you may please

Red, yellow,black whichever puts you into ease.

But paint you must

Or bare walls might expose all your dust.