I Am a Writer

I don't work in a cubical
But I am stuck in a box
I worry that my dreams will run away from me
And that I could never catch up
But even scarier is a thought that just occurred to me
What if my dreams are just a lie I tell myself to keep going
What if these dreams are just an imaginary glass ceiling
What if when I finally catch up to them and
It's just feathers, dust bunnies, and sunlight fairies
That writing is a lie I tell myself to get by
And if someone sat a desk in front of me and put a pen in my hand
I would just sit there, staring out the window
A stack of blank pages three reams thick to keep me company
A blank mind to match the empty book I'm not writing
Because you see
The truth is
I have time to get started on it now
But at the end of a long work day
Nothing comes to me
So I just eat dinner, watch TV, masturbate, and go to sleep
And dream about when I can finally quit my day job
And spend all of my time writing

End.