Words

Work work work.....
God I hate working for my dreams by way of prostituting myself to another's.
Most of my time is spent laboring for their dreams and what little time is left for me I can barely afford to spend what remains of the ink of my imagination I can barely see the paper upon which I so desire to journey.
There is in this world a missing part I dont know if it is a wheel, a cog, a lever, a hidden micro switch, or an ancient string of words from a dead language I just know that it is missing and without we are lost to live lives of many dull monochrome moments with a few fragments of bright and shiny to taunt us.
If I find that missing part would you my dearest friends clear a path to the place it belongs.