An interlude.

I wish I could tell you I'm alright,
But as a boy I was told not to lie.
There's so much I'd like to write,
So many open ends I'd like to tie.

There's paragraphs that I'd like to pen,
But my soul is owned by the routine of the day.
My energy is sapped by work enough for ten men,
All for what? A measly pay.