Whores

I was cleaning up the garage and came across an old journal I used to write in when I was living in Ottawa back in 1995. I never write poetry, so this is fairly unique. Also, I like it quite a bit, so here it is, in it’s entirety, straight out of ‘95.
Monday is another word for Hell,
I know this feeling well.
The first of seven days of shit,
Each one worse than the one before it.
An escalating state of apathy,
Always finds it’s way to me.
I have callused hands,
From the doors I’ve slammed.
My blisters earned,
From bridges burned.
Any gifts have been forgotten,
Cast aside and now they’re rotten.
You can walk a mile in my shoes,
At least they will be getting used.
Then, you and I can share a meal,
And lose it on a Ferris wheel.
We can spend the day speaking in metaphors,
But in the end, we’re all just whores.