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Ed C May 8
we start the day again
as though sleep is just a memory,
the wheel keeps spinning
ka? ha
The **** Monster energy hoodie
She wears every day,
Her hair swept back in a greasy mess,
A knife with a mushy handle
That was left in the sanitizing water too long
In hand
As she gingerly dices lettuce.
She always gets quiet when she criticizes me.
I’m just trying to earn my minimum wage,
But she had a bad day at home,
So she’ll find fault in whatever I’m doing.

Go home and fall asleep,
It’s only 10am,
My sheets are fresh,
And my clothes aren’t.
Then he calls me and tells me to wake up.

The kitchen has miniature milky ways
floating around in the sunlight dripping from the windows,
It smells like dinner from yesterday
And alspice.
My mother is still wearing her maroon bathrobe,
Her hair is a tangled halo framing her face in imperfect curls,
She’s sorting the spices.
She doesn’t understand why I’m unable to keep up with her busy chatter.

It’s a habit to repeat what I must do to stay alive to myself,
As if I’m both child and mother, giving a list of instructions and dragging my feet to follow.
“Brush your teeth,”
“Wash your face,”
“Take a shower,”
“You haven’t eaten yet today,”
“Do laundry,”
“Go to sleep,”
“Talk to your friends,”
“Pay your bills,”
“Go to work,”
“Wake up,”
“Don’t go back to sleep,”
“Drink water,”
“No alcohol before 5pm.”
Keep going.
Somehow, keep going.

My evenings are spent
With my hands tenderly ******* the long neck
Of a beer bottle.
My lips pursed,
Kissing the brim
And savoring every golden drop.
I try to distract myself from the absence of company,
Tell myself I like to be alone.

I go to sleep alone,
I try to fill up
The part of my bed he should be in,
And not think about it.
The cotton covers wrapped around me
Mummifying myself
In mindless sleep.

4:45am alarm,
And it all starts again.
Sparrow Feb 9
I bring out a bottle
I keep the ashtray close
I open the northern window
And let in the midnight breeze

A bud lit like a firefly
A lone light in a dark room
Beyond which urban neons
And streetlamps illume

Smoke rises over my head
Like a thought bubble
In a graphic novel
Pages untouched and unturned

The hour of monsters
The rest of humanity rests
While the night shift begins
For the thoughts in my head

Illusory sensations begin
Could it be the spirits?
Or conscious daydreaming
In the middle of the night?

I catch a glimpse
Of a pair of eyes
Hurrying away from the window
As soon as they met mine

My mind is tired
The ****** soothes,
The drink gives warmth
To the parched traveller inside

Cramps in my nerves
Pain in my bones
The bedroom beckons
Its 3AM. It's getting cold

I collapse on the sheets
My mind too dreary
To contemplate, once I sleep
What nightmares await me

I reckon I have resigned
To Fate, this grim Hell
Because I know Tonight
Is coming Tomorrow as well
Daniel H Shulman Nov 2018
I am surprisingly surprised
About things already surmised.
This dullness
And sameness,
The monotonous feeling
Not a thing new revealing,
All the same trials,
In familiar styles.

I am surprisingly surprised
Though not one thing has been disguised.
Broken hope,
Such a dope,
I just wanted to believe,
This time I’d get my reprieve,
But I was shocked when
Life fooled me again.

I am surprisingly surprised
That I still have not realized,
I have earned
What I’ve learned,
While predictability
Is not such a tragedy,
I smile to myself.
Life repeats itself.
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Aisha Nov 2018
Like a ferris wheel,
It all moved real fast.
With an effort that only time could tell
Making every eye that falls on it, last
But in the end stayed stangnant
In a place where the end was always another start  

Inspite of the mindless pace and run
Inspite of the beads of sweat that fell
It lay in a motion of stillness
With no fruition of the struggle it dealt  

But inspite of all this trouble and toil
There rose an unstoppable spirit
Fueled from the quenched desire of shine
Did it keep the raging fire inside lit
Bansi Adroja Oct 2018
Do you ever count the bad days
and wonder why
you let those hours pass you by

Why get out from under the covers
the comfort of memory foam
and the cold side of the pillow

Why sit in traffic
listening to those same over played songs
wanting to scream at the top of your lungs
at the changing lights

Why sit at a desk
with almost strangers
checking for the count down to lunch
or any type of break
from the relentless machine
of the everyday

Why not pack up and leave
move to a place where you count
do something that matters
without a six am alarm
but that's just another thought
to pass the day
A Poem a Day
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