Payments, payments, complaints and insurance.
Decisions, decisions, yes/no/maybe, scale of preference.
God, parents, manager, director, lifetime of deference.
Yes sir, no sir, delay gratification. Feign indifference.
What’s the point if you’re the walking dead.
You groan, you walk, you work, you’re dead.
You die, you sleep, you rise, you’re dead.
Endless filling time till you’re dead.
Your breath is foul, your eyes are rotted,
a braille constellation of the points you plotted.
You danced to the beat of drumming ambition.
Bloated and exhausted and fueled by addition
You followed the footprints burnt into the ground.
Your rent and bills circle the merry-go-round.
Chasing endless growth, of the great British pound.
You run out of juice, despite all the supplements,
And the sustainable energy they misrepresent,
But food trail leads off the edge of a cliff,
You'll finally rest when you're cold and stiff.
Rebecca River Forbes is a British-Mauritian fuelled by tea (she travels with a tea library). She writes poems, short stories, and she writes and performs comedy. She recently finished her novel Shut Mouth and is hunting for an agent to give her some love. Find her on Twitter @bohobo101