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neth jones May 8
sense heavy
  i plough at the day slurred
  pushing putty steps
aching and unfocused
  going about chores
  tackling things ...like...
...have i been delivered head trauma?

unbearable attention is drawn by my visible condition
pain inducing communications are fired at me
inquiry that i bat at and parry pathetic

Can I lumber onward
nauseated i
and be
in anyway productive ?
muscular suffering
this astronaut
this deep sea explorer
is
receiving a poor mix of gases

valve
carvermon Feb 26
A billion dollars I have gathered
That’s the billionaire’s way
The bit that I’ve earned
a tiny fraction of that
(only so many hours in a day)
Instead of hard work
I work around rules
that once described the way
that one who worked hard
spending effort and hours
could secure that hard day’s worth of pay

Many have struggled
to build the wealth I’ve now juggled
into shelters and holdings and banks
I could carelessly burn it
‘cause I didn’t earn it
But those who did,
I guess,
deserve thanks
KG Nov 2020
Waiting on the elevator
For my day of labor
Instant gratification after
Days of waiting safer
Now we talk in secret
Spaces craving the others
Flavor of disgust leaving
Rust in my joints and bones
Masochistic I remember
Pain has always been my
Home.
Johnson Oyeniran Sep 2020
Though you were ambushed by trickery,
You spat on the face of apathy and
Stood daily by your roots, till
Thy labor blossomed with
Good tidings.

A subject you were of ill treatment,
Bouncing from one leech to another
Through channels of stress,
Greeted by streams of anxiety.

Fashioned in obsidian,
You shot your arrow
Wrapped with zeal,
Within the bowels of your target,
By thy hands, foreign to sleep
To claim your sweat,
Your first metal horse
With nostrils of fire.

Ridden she has by endless host
Before thee, filled with years of tales
Eager to rest on the dusty shelf of thy mind,
To keep thee entertained as you ride her body,
Whenever you see fit.

But one wish she requires of thee,
That you melt thy heart in her core;
Thy silver partner in crime.
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
Sonnet: Second Sight (II)
by Michael R. Burch

(Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.)

Wiser than we know, the newborn screams,
red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means
this close to death, amid the arctic glare
of warmthless lights above.
Beware! Beware!—
encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts?

Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts—
the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist.
Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist—
this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense.
Why can he not float on, in dark suspense,
and dream of life? Why did they rip him out?

He frowns at them—small gnomish frowns, all doubt—
and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!,
re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null
ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful.

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, newborn, baby, birth, labor, slap, breath, screams, life, sight, vision, mrbson
Bhill Sep 2020
everyone has heard of the acorn tale
”Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded.”
everyone has listened to the Little Red Hen
”she made the bread herself, she will eat the bread herself.”
----------------
not everyone has their hands stained with labor
we all need to work together
stop the bickering and name-calling
stop the delusional thinking and help make the bread
we got this - we have to get this!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 249
Have you ever bought a perfume labeled
“Monday in the Fields” ?

It has a faint fragrance where
milkweeds and lilies linger in the air,
as if a gust of wind from the clouds
drifted it towards you.

Slowly but surely the aroma gets stronger,
as if the milkweeds and lilies are gathering
to form a bouquet made especially for you.
You reach out your hand to accept them
but an unexpected musk flows past you.

Suddenly a smell as salty and natural
as the deepest parts of the ocean appears.
An ocean filled with oxidized metal
and fields of brackish seaweed.
It is a distinct and intoxicating smell,
a smell that can only be found in one place.

That place is from the beads of sweat
that drip off the back and forehead of the laborer.
The very laborer who picked the milkweeds and lilies.
The very laborer who works under a scorching sun.
The very laborer who skips meals to work overtime.
The very laborer who helped arrange this scent.

Not every scent is placed in a perfume bottle.
Well...at least not the natural ones.
The prompt for this poem was “Fragrance”. I decided to show how not everything in the world is natural, and almost everything we see is artificial or altered in order to make the world seem as though it is flawless
Kelly Mistry Aug 2020
I don’t accept
I’m not ready
You’re not ready

To say
“I’m sorry”

Because to forgive for me
Is to forget for you

And I’m not ready
For you to forget

I need you to remember
To think
To agonize

As I have remembered
And thought
And agonized

Not as punishment
Sometimes pain is necessary for growth

So I need you to struggle
To grow
To seek to understand

Otherwise your “sorry”
Is a blank canvas
Meant for me to write
The meaning

I refuse to do your labor
To bear this pain alone

I don’t accept
Your “sorry”
Thinking about how it should be the person receiving the apology who has agency to determine when it's appropriate to move on, not the one who needs to apologize
Douglas Balmain Aug 2020
They killed John Henry
with a false ideal:
ownership as Realization;
Happiness as being external;
life's vitality as commodity.

They killed John Henry
with a name and a title.

They killed John Henry
with an interested dream.
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