Your backdrop is a corner where two glass walls meet.
Your outfit is the blend of a dictator's and a doorman's.
Perched atop your pinnacle of triumph,
with smug integrity and false sense of leadership,
you push for steps without ideas, bury goals with mindless haste,
and expect growth amidst stagnant, constricting, toxic air.
You speak of core values, relentless innovation, and passion,
but it is your enforced bureaucracy that pisses on our fire.
Our efforts, our nights, our youth are wasted on negative ends
as we accept your disrespect with lips, not mum, but temporarily sealed,
and with hands extended for a few crisp bills that we do not even need.
To your quick temper and ill manner, we respond with a humble nod,
a polite pattern, a sequence of evoking tone inflections,
sometimes, even a pretty smile if we are up to it,
but if we dare tell the truth right to your face,
I am sure deep down, you already know what we would say, right?
That you are one-hit-wonders amongst monotonous output out of context,
with the luxury of a big name and hand-me-down fame.
Honey, where is this passion you talk so often about;
tell me, how can there be passion in such a misplaced heart?