Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,  
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.  

Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.

Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.

Sunday evening, it's time to sleep
Monday starts another week
Tuesday I am out with a swing
Hard at work doing my thing,
Wednesday I am working late
Carrying bricks for a house to make.
On this ladder climbing high
When I come down I'll take a break ,
I hope this day will soon pass by
Those building bricks just multiply,
Wow! Thursday now is getting near
One more night then Friday's here
I am thinking of that ice cold beer
Raising a glass giving a cheer,
I hope this day will soon fly by
On Friday night's my mouth gets dry
When in the pub I put things right
Away with the fairies all of the night
Monday morning it will keep
Then off to work for another week,
For now I am in this pub so nice
It's my Friday night in paradise

jas Feb 8

what's been on my mind
every time
that im high

with my head in the clouds
aint no way I'm coming down

my faults are what made me
the truth is what gave me
a sense of reality

im high,
doing fine
without you
by my side

and im never coming down

like a kite
fireworks on the fourth of July
this time
its all mine

as long as I'm high

day 35/ Feb. 6
Amber K Feb 3

"Hello, how are you?"
I say in a voice I can't believe is mine.
I hate it so much.
It's become like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.

I ask the human in front of me,
"What can I get you today?"
They ignore me.
Finally someone approaches.

It's an older lady,
gray bushy hair with wild eyes.
I smile and begin to take her order.
She begins to make rude remarks towards me.

She leaves,
someone else approaches.
It's a man angry about a price I did not set.
He takes it out on me.

I take all of the verbal punches.
From people who have had their worst days,
to people who are just too privileged to give a little kindness,
I smile through it all.

I don't really think anyone who walks in,
really sees me as a human being.
They don't see that I fight social anxiety for a living,
or that I go through things too.

They don't care.
They don't want to care.
When they ask how I am,
they don't want an honest answer.

I wonder if they would smile,
or compliment me instead of insulting me,
if I weren't standing behind a counter,
taking orders and giving change.

Working with the public is rough. I've had the job I  have right now for awhile and everyday I am still shocked at how customers (and bosses) treat workers at restaurants. I try to smile and be kind to every customer service worker I ever come in contact with, because it can definitely get to you if you have people insulting you or treating you like crap from 7 in the morning until 3 in the evening.
Seanathon Jan 23

I always wanted to work in a place
Where if it surpasses me
I could walk out of an open door, into the woods
And walk away from everything
Until I am surrounded by trees
And so I am, surrounded by trees
Away from that place and all that it means
Because walking is part of a walking life
And no shoelace ever remains fully tied

The air feels cooler after that
Seanathon Jan 22

A desk is a chain
And a door a weight amongst a wait
And yet men and women chain themselves
To merely familiar similar fates
On a daily basis they do base
Their admirations on those without chains
But it couldn’t be
That IT were THEY
That freedom were found in a more free way

Here to breaking patterns. Destroying expectations. Ans freeing yourself from the forgetful because.
Donna Jones Dec 2017

It's raining it's
pouring my lot are snoring zzzzzzz
And I'm off to work!

I wanted to roll over and go back to sleep but got to go to work today grrrrr x :)
My lot are on there xmas hols and I had two days of work come in I just couldn't refuse it but it don't stop me having a moan :)))
Nylee Nov 2017

Awake at odd times,
eating chips between yawns
waiting for the end to come
as I don't want to greet the sun yet.
I haven't had any rest
eyes closing as I open them
coffee went empty again
the hours ending fast.
I don't know how long it will last
tomorrow is going to stretch longer
I'll need energy to be there.
One more hour more,
I've said that before.
My body is rebelling
As I keep trying.
I yearn for the deep sleep ,
the one I won't get to keep.

Laurel Leaves Nov 2017

I don't want to talk about it really

I was just sitting on the grey couch
While he sat across from me with a pen and paper
And we were laughing
Laughing about how
I never really had to watch someone slowly die
Because everyone I've cared about that's passed
Was shot point blank
Close range
And my therapist giggled
As the morbid humor rushed out of me
And it kind of just echoed through the small dimly lit room

Until I started to scream
Crying hysterically
He just looked at me slowly
Realizing the moment had quickly passed
And turned into a very visceral flashback

He's trying to talk me down but all I could see
Was the footage looping over and over again
In my head
Why was he holding a knife yelling 'dont shoot'
Why the fuck was he holding a knife?

So no,
I don't really want to talk about it.
I just want to lie here and focus on the pressure you're applying to my chest
While you hold me
Wrap your arms around me
So I can finally fall asleep.

I think it was August. The leaves we're starting to fall but it was hot outside.
I think he was on coke but he still shouldn't have died.
Bryan Oct 2017

He picks up the pennies,
everywhere he goes.
Pieces of bigger things:
the fragments of the whole.
There never was a miracle
too small to behold,
and so he kept every one,
and every one made him bowed.
The others all around him,
seemed happy in their role,
but he knew only backache,
toil, and toll.
He carried his burden,
as vast as he, old.
Too large to conceal,
he never let it go.
He slept on coin pillows
the color of mold
and defended his treasure
with a vigor so bold
that ten men together
should endeavor to hold.

One day while counting,
the man, in his home,
heard a noise from the ceiling
that sounded of groan.
He dashed for his pennies,
as groan grew to moan
and was crushed under rains
of money he owed.

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