Three years in the purgatory can feel like throwing away a pound of flesh for free.
Everyone who cared even slightly tried to kill my curse,
But I kept crawling, blinded and obsessed, high on a killing spree.
The light I chased like my personal Northern star ended up being just cheap neon.
The work I put in quickly turned into secondhand dust,
It was polluted by the greed of some silver demons.
Still, I chase the dream like it is worth combusting alive for, but the days drag on.
I wonder why I sold my mind, was it worth it?
Why did I write my death sentence in orange crayon?
The desk sits heavy on my chest as I go through another unfulfilling nine to five.
Everyone who cared chases their own curse now.
If I am lucky, I will be the first one to make it out alive.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 