Clog in the cog of life

I’m just a clog in the cog of life,

When things back up, I get nothing but strife.

Whether at work or at home with the wife,

I’m only a clog in the cog of life.

Remodelers came and ripped out my throne

In the last room where I could be alone.

Now all I have is a slop jar and a phone,

And for a cushion a piece of foam.

I’m just a clog in the cog of life.

I get nothing but toil and strife.

Some days it feels sharp, like the stab of a knife.

I’m only a clog in the cog of life.

Even at work I get no peace:

A place for my tensions to find release.

I look at my paycheck and want to yell: “Police!”

To demand they look for my missing piece.

I’m just a clog in the cog of life.

Nobody cares about my struggles and strife.

Not even heaven where they have their slice

Of the piece of the pie in the afterlife.

Oh, God in heaven, how can this be?

Why, oh, why have you forsaken me?

I’ve always tried to serve unto thee,

But you cut me off like a branch from a tree.

I stand on the ledge of total despair.

No throne. No money. In tattered underwear.

People down below, they don’t even care.

They just don’t want me to land there, there, or there.

I’m just a clog in the cog of life.

I’ve said my prayers, left a note for my wife.

When I land it will end all my strife,

Unless I don’t make it into the afterlife.

I’ve endured war, death, and disease;

A boss, a wife, and a bum knee.

Can’t I have just one thing for me?

Is my life “to be or not to be”?

I’m just a clog in the cog of life,

Suffering the outrageous fortunes of strife.

The slings and arrows carve me like a knife

Into a piece of gristle for the cog of life.

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Filed under 2016, poetry by author

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