Upon Rhyme

Just because I want to:

eschewing pages of prose for rythmic thought, brewed in the cortex,
emerging unscathed on the screen, after braving cerebral vortex
and constant clouds of distraction, rendering action into stasis,
on the corporate dole for a dime, with a constant refrain of "I hate this"

waking up in the morning, dawn and the yawning arriving as one,
heading to realms of mourning, but at least the driving is fun,
slaving attached to a desk, alarm bells signal an absence of seconds
possessing the means for change, but somehow lacking the methods