Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Days In Office

I come to office on a Monday
Leave every Friday
(Sometimes they call me on Saturday too)
Just Sunday is mine
Which I spend in anticipation of Monday

I've been told,
(By experts)
That there are other days
Like Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday
But I refuse to believe them
Unless they show me empirical evidence
With excel sheets and progress reports
And graphs made into pie charts
Which I will pretend to understand

Still I wonder where do Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday go.
In the boss' ass perhaps

The Silence

In a second the lights are out
No more click clacks
Sudden darkness
Silent people
From a gap in the curtains
A sliver of a dying sun
It pierces through
Illuminating the skin on my hand
I look at it
And suddenly
My eyes are full of tears
What the fuck am i doing here?
While a beautiful sun sets outside
But then the lights are on
The chatter resumes
Keyboards start clickclacking again
There are deadlines to be met
Projects reports to be delivered
Excel Sheets to be filled
I should be thrilled
But I miss the sliver of sunlight
I miss the fight
I used to fight
I miss myself
In this bright artificial light.

Office had a powercut for a minutes today. That inspired this poem.
I am writing lot of office themed poems, I don't know why, but this is what I want to write, for now.

Friday, October 1, 2010

The Keyboard :: A Poem

Were these the most precious years of my life?
That I just wasted typing 26 letters and few symbols
My fingers run like magic on this keyboard
And i forget my dad's birthday

Things went by too fast, I couldn't make them last
There is a lot that I left behind
I'm in the future, seeking rewind
What is gone, now it can't come back

It makes me sad to think
Why I wasn't thinking then
There is a lot I could have done and said
But I just typed all my anger away

The funny thing is that it doesn't hurt any more
Just a silent resignation of will and desire
What is my problem, i am not even sure
But i am looking for a spark to rekindle the fire

Then, maybe
I'll get a rocking chair
And watch the fire burn
To warm my old knees
On which I will place this keyboard
And type my old age away
It's a disjointed poem. If you also earn your livelihood by mashing your fingers in a keyboard, isn't it time we did something new?