I am the broken mind.
Too preoccupied with percentages,
leaden bubbles, and crisp clean
freedom written in academia’s font
to pursue a contract willing to trade
my four-to-eight, 7 days a week
(Our Savior only lives in books)
for a wallet barely filled
with excessive survival.
Instead I labor through equations,
aspiring to fill my pocket a little
greater when I am a little greyer.
They are the damaged aids.
Understanding that I have
nothing to claim possession of
but neglecting to qualify
my sacrificial offerings, slaughtering
myself in hopes of higher salvation.
Freely they dispose tens and twenties
into my wretched palms, never
forgetting to press their words
into my ears and try to entrap me
in guilty dependence.
I will not plant them orchards
just because they have asked.