#bluecollar - Hello Poetry

You're not just a laborer, you're a source of value! You carry the burden, you build, but you're the one with the lightest pockets! They call you "hard workers," but that's just a cover-up to cover up the "harsh system" that saps your energy! Don't ask "what for," but ask "why" — why do you produce everything, but all you get are scraps? Your fatigue isn't destiny, it's evidence of structural injustice! Unite, because you're the ones who should be —not the ones being trampled on— but the ones who determine the direction of history!

0

Oct 4, 2025

Oct 4, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC

Ayatullahnurjati

Construction Worker

You're not just a laborer, you're a source of value! You carry the burden, you build, but you're the one with the lightest pockets! They call you "hard workers," but that's just a cover-up to cover up the "harsh system" that saps your energy! Don't ask "what for," but ask "why" — why do you produce everything, but all you get are scraps? Your fatigue isn't destiny, it's evidence of structural injustice! Unite, because you're the ones who should be —not the ones being trampled on— but the ones who determine the direction of history!

5

There's a thrill and you fall into it again as you forget Rubberneck contagion Anxieties in the upper regions though, no gut disturbance a strange observation process -without that hinderance Hopped up, the witness Gaze upon a brewing formation Linger tensions Fears shoot up from the deep Like ghosts and demons Around every corner and shadowed path In yr house, when you were young Still perhaps.. you let it bite and a car pulls up Single pointed aggression And we proceed Such a wonder Not really but the feelings procession of instincts habitual And we choose fractions Be important because we believe what the F* does that even mean? Can you go through the process To figure the dimensions of a form.. Listen for a moment; He says he's drunk but really asking to be loved and miraculously it worked off he walked to oblivion if only we had the guts to follow ..I may have gone deeper Than I can dig, up a figure anyway But it's never a settled point So there's always room to play around

0

Nov 19, 2020

Nov 19, 2020 at 9:35 PM UTC

niel-1

bus home(i)

There's a thrill and you fall into it again as you forget Rubberneck contagion Anxieties in the upper regions though, no gut disturbance a strange observation process -without that hinderance Hopped up, the witness Gaze upon a brewing formation Linger tensions Fears shoot up from the deep Like ghosts and demons Around every corner and shadowed path In yr house, when you were young Still perhaps.. you let it bite and a car pulls up Single pointed aggression And we proceed Such a wonder Not really but the feelings procession of instincts habitual And we choose fractions Be important because we believe what the F* does that even mean? Can you go through the process To figure the dimensions of a form.. Listen for a moment; He says he's drunk but really asking to be loved and miraculously it worked off he walked to oblivion if only we had the guts to follow ..I may have gone deeper Than I can dig, up a figure anyway But it's never a settled point So there's always room to play around

39

The grimy auto tech bursts through the door a quarter to six straight to the fridge opening the white door pulling the yellow jug out with force the creamy liquid clears grime from the corner of his lips

0

Aug 21, 2016

Aug 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC

eden-wheeler

AJ

The grimy auto tech bursts through the door a quarter to six straight to the fridge opening the white door pulling the yellow jug out with force the creamy liquid clears grime from the corner of his lips

10

Pop music and Alaskan ice Whiskey is cool and I'm blue So too are the bloodied few Smoke rises and inspires Creation spirals into anew Sending geysers ski high Letting go the rigers of life A summon of ice Falling of snow flakes Seasonal prices are here Signs gripping onto holsters Finding *** and coal Air stale Quietly rancid Unholy desperation of breath Job is old Feeble are the bones Lost is the soul

0

Dec 31, 2017

Dec 31, 2017 at 1:04 AM UTC

dakotajdawson

Blue collar or the Dog collar?

Pop music and Alaskan ice Whiskey is cool and I'm blue So too are the bloodied few Smoke rises and inspires Creation spirals into anew Sending geysers ski high Letting go the rigers of life A summon of ice Falling of snow flakes Seasonal prices are here Signs gripping onto holsters Finding *** and coal Air stale Quietly rancid Unholy desperation of breath Job is old Feeble are the bones Lost is the soul

18

My home is made of grit and dirt The taps run sweat, the windows are shattered, their glass clinging to frames like broken teeth to gums in the mouth of a boxer. My town is a fighter, built of scrap metal and machines. The streets are steel and the river nuts and bolts, its gears turn through rust and parts corrode away. Time turns it green, orange, black with oil and grime, but my city is a fighter, made of grit and dirt, and it lives.

0

Aug 5, 2015

Aug 5, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC

kat-walsh

Grit & dirt

My home is made of grit and dirt The taps run sweat, the windows are shattered, their glass clinging to frames like broken teeth to gums in the mouth of a boxer. My town is a fighter, built of scrap metal and machines. The streets are steel and the river nuts and bolts, its gears turn through rust and parts corrode away. Time turns it green, orange, black with oil and grime, but my city is a fighter, made of grit and dirt, and it lives.

16

My Dad has tough hands Hard working and honest Blue collar hands He has scars On the backs of his thumbs And rips through his palms He has rugged hands Loving hands Warm and worn Heavy hands Stories between the base of his fingers The hands of a simple man Who sees no point in pessimism He has real-man hands That will carry any weight He could lift cars if he wanted to I know it He has hands with a background Never truly scrubbed clean Dirt and oil Fossilized beneath his fingernails My father has kind hands The kind of hands I hope my husband has

0

Aug 25, 2013

Aug 25, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC

scottie-green

Dada

My Dad has tough hands Hard working and honest Blue collar hands He has scars On the backs of his thumbs And rips through his palms He has rugged hands Loving hands Warm and worn Heavy hands Stories between the base of his fingers The hands of a simple man Who sees no point in pessimism He has real-man hands That will carry any weight He could lift cars if he wanted to I know it He has hands with a background Never truly scrubbed clean Dirt and oil Fossilized beneath his fingernails My father has kind hands The kind of hands I hope my husband has

24