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Joelle Sep 6
We own the night streets.
Once the stores close,
we find ourselves staring down
the tenebrous highway, occupied by only streetlights
that fly by our peripherals like birds.

We haven't seen birds in awhile.
The only glimpse of sunlight you get is the day poking
through our blinds as we sleep.
The sound of children playing on the street-
is no longer a sound that brings lightness to the heart.
It pulls from our troubled sleep, and we simply smother our faces into the sheets that we need to be washed.

The smell of oil can easily be washed out of clothes,
but, it lingers on the skin, seeping into our being.
Our identity is slowly being crushed by work.
Dust collect on books, video games, CDs, instruments-
which sit not unforgotten but neglected.

There is never enough time for a meal.
We line our bellies with granola bars, frozen food and coffee-
yet, food surrounds us at work.
The smell permeates the air while
hands tremble and rolls of nausea make us weak.

Sometimes, a primal anger slips by,
an indignant anger that wonders how life could be so meaningless yet joyless?
Our ancestors sat in fields, contemplating clouds as they drifted across a great blue sky.
Outside windows, the evening sky speaks to us,
resonating more than a manager's words ever could.
The glow of city lights
reflecting on the fountain waters
it lighting up the grey brick floor.
Renon is sleeping.

After the anesthesia wore off,
it seems as if
the Drawarapla is starring at me.

Are we all
too entitled to be willing to “suffer” ?
we're clay molded, put in the work?

There’s a fine line
between submission and abuse.
090521 | 5:05PM
Sunday afternoon well spent - my weekly guest come visit me again - anxiety. And I feel this sadness, weirdness, anxiety mostly in my stomach. About what? I don't know. Oh to be adults, to be "obligated" working all the time & live an unselfish life where you provide for ever else around you. Don't get me wrong, I'm so grateful to be able to work, but I think this is my hormonal talking. I have no energy whatsoever, could be effect of the vaccine. Now I'm rumbling.
Jenny Biller May 5
every day -
hustling and bustling
eating and sleeping
ever week -
Monday to Friday
nine to five
every year -
working and holidaying
waiting and longing
to be free.
Broken Pieces Mar 31
I've been off on a twisted adventure,
Finding the best way to reach my center.

It feels like I've been completely alone,
I feel like there are still so many unknowns.

Do I feel any change happening?
Sometimes I wonder if I'm just imagining.

I'm working hard to try something completely new,
It's really weird to be working on myself to.
kaileia Mar 11
there was a girl who was tired from working too much.
she pleaded for the work to stop but it just kept coming.
drowning, drowning she felt like she couldn’t even breathe.
sleep didn’t even help her escape the immense responsibilities she had on her shoulders.

they keep coming.
they keep pummeling her.
they keep asking more of her.

she is spending herself.
she is spent.
she is exhausted.
she needs a break.
she needs to rest.

but rest is elusive.
she can’t stop working.
she has to keep on working and keep on going.
staying strong?
what does that even mean.

strength is all she has.
she relies on herself alone.
spontaneous writing exercise from class
Ron Gavalik Feb 23
Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves

–Ron Gavalik
Glenn Currier Jan 30
I have spent so much energy, time and money
avoiding pain
not realizing that it is a gift
its own reward
only earned
by enduring it
securing it

Can’t get it just by sitting

But I can earn it
by listening
The crime
is not taking time
pain is earned
with time spent
with the climb
into someone’s tortured heart.

Pain must not be spurned
it must be earned.
Author’s Note: With gratitude to Jason for his poem, “Chained,”
Jamesb Nov 2020
Over half a century served now,
Two kids
Two weddings
And one heart attack,
A life chequered with
Equal good and dark and downright bad,
Joy brought to some
Yet to others pain,
So I wonder now,
Can two rights
Overcome one wrong?

Yes I have done my part,
Brought some to faith,
Helped more to a better
More empowered life,
Loved and been loved
And yet always it seems
Lifting others to fly
Like eager doves
To greater things,
Greater lives,
Better loves and more,

Yet still I wonder,
Can two rights correct
One wrong?
Can even I be saved,
Is salvation there for
Even one such as I?
I have been called
An angel,
Even offered wings to
Others comfort
And encouragement,
Yet I so feel that darker side,
That darker things has done,

And so as this journey
Draws to its conclusion
I find myself drawing in
To myself yet still
(Over so in fact) to the wellbeing of these others,
Still there for them and yet
At heart and
In the dark
I am alone aside
From the judgement

Of unelected disdainful
Self-righteous prigs
Yet here I am,
Up to my **** in alligators
Yet still trying to drain
Other people's swamps,
Still bailing while
Dodging the bites and
Still quiet,
Still alone,
In the dark,
As the coffin lid,
Slides home.
Graff1980 Nov 2020
It’s shift change,
and pit stains
paint my blue shirt.

My feet hurt,
and I’m ready to leave work,
but the teenage party ****
doesn’t come in,
so of course I
am not leaving,
just grieving
my lost evening

Sixteen-hour anxiety,
cause I almost O.D.
on carbonated caffeine,
as the sugar and acid
eat away
painful tooth decay.

Make it home and hope to
get enough sleep to
make it through
my next shift.

Unload those greasy clothes
onto my bathroom floor
before I change into
my holy t-shirt and
ripped up shorts.
Don’t even make it to the shower
cause I am out in less than
a quarter of an hour
after I enter the front door.

In again, wash, and repeat,
I know this isn’t me.
I could do so much more.

Boss yells get your times down!
Fix this order!
Stop lounging,
if you got time to lean,
ya got time to clean.”

My co-workers only see
another cog
in the fast-food machine.
Even when I’m not clowning,
I am still a joke to them.

So, tired but it’s not just
sleep that I need.
So, burnt out that
I just want to up and leave,
but I’m twenty-three
and it won’t be
till I am twenty-eight
that I get free,
running off to another city
to get a higher degree
and escape this restaurant
barely get paid
minimum wage
Write between the lime juice lines,
And basil blood,
On the cutting board
To the rhythm of cooks' kitchen knives,

Write between the wet mop tendril trails,
On the reused restaurant floor,
As you carried to clean
A mistake some rich man made,

Write to the beat of the press,
Punching out the steel form,
In accordance with the curriculum,

Write in the silent moments,
Chewing homemade sandwiches
Through the cigarette smoked sunrise

Write between stun grenade blasts
After cleaning tear gas attacks

Write in between ****** boot prints,
The shape of the state seal
Congealed to the street.
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