A brief word on my struggle to find employment.
Empty Hands
They say don't get attached.
But how can you not when it has been so long?
And you have dreams deferred for years.
They say don't let emotions get in the way of your hustle.
But every rejection letter hurts.
Every soulless notice sent from a faceless email address.
They say don't hate the human behind the resources.
But the pie is shared inside.
And you are on the outside looking in.
They say don't take it out on anyone.
It's the process, the machine, the system.
But you want to throw baseballs at lockers like Ricky Vaughn.
I want you to tell me all this grind is worth the effort.
That my dream will overcome the American Reality.
And if you can't, then proving you wrong is what keeps me hungry.
Meantime, I tinker, building my Deloran with the future in mind.
Even if you have me looped back to the past.
Withholding plutonium until I make it work on banana peels and trash.
There is no notice from 1985 to save me from the shots.
Consider this my shot fired for the shots taken.
To the chest, to the wallet, and to the confidence.
I'll take another shot and strike up another conversation.
Maybe she's the one I can build a home with.
I'd rather be a last dance than a last resort.
In a weird way, there is comfort in the pain.
Not sure how I would react if I got it all tomorrow.
The whole pie, the whole enchilada, the whole world.
You don't have to give everything to me yet.
I just want something to help me seize the dreams.
I just don't want my hands to be empty anymore.
