What I am doing

If I suffer at this
computer
think of how I would feel
in some potato field
picking, sacking

I think of the guys
I know in grey cubicles
with no way to
get out-
gasping on life while
laughing at Jimmy Kimmel

while 3 kids whack
rubber balls against the walls

their deaths will not
be recorded as suicides

I scratch my hand and find
a vowel - that's enough for me

only dying will take this power
as my hand drops the last pen
in some cheap room where
they will find me there

and never know my name
my meaning
nor the beauty
of how I escaped.