Bitterness in your mouth
It tastes like ash on your tongue
from sitting to close to the campfire

Forgotten again

It's not the first time
It probably won't be the last

Invisible

The work gets magically done,
it must be the shoemaker's elf
(the irony of the name does not escape me)

"I don't care," is your rally cry
but you do care
and it hurts
You come to work to work,
they come to work to socialize,
and because of that you cease to exist

The bitterness on your tongue tastes like a lie when you smile