#criticaltheory - 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

Don't tell me not to die inside. Don't lie and say that you care. You don't even know what caring means and you don't care to learn. The truth is you are glad for my pain, my unease, my never-ending suffering. It must somehow feel like justice to you. The power you get, the power THEY gave you. Hands, hearts, and minds, monitoring. Judging. Wanting. Waiting. Eager to see me fail. To justify your existence. To validate you and the values you claim make you superior. When the truth is we are just fancy monkeys. The only ones that put each other in cages, that relentlessly derive joy from ruining each other's lives. That construct elaborate ruses to assuage each other as to safety and the zenith of right and wrong realized and in action. No one knows why our minds sometimes take the turns that they do. Do you ever ask yourself why you need or want so much power? Control, influence. Who has what sickness and why? Is the sickness chosen much worse than an instinct acted upon? Isn't cold premeditated calculation much worse than an impulse? Each leaf, like a snowflake, is different. Similar, perhaps, but truly not "the same." Who cares though, right? It's the cookie cutter for all of them !

0

Mar 22, 2025

Mar 22, 2025 at 7:00 PM UTC

OldeMrHoover

Clown Hammer Gavel: Daily Ecclesiastic Executioner

Don't tell me not to die inside. Don't lie and say that you care. You don't even know what caring means and you don't care to learn. The truth is you are glad for my pain, my unease, my never-ending suffering. It must somehow feel like justice to you. The power you get, the power THEY gave you. Hands, hearts, and minds, monitoring. Judging. Wanting. Waiting. Eager to see me fail. To justify your existence. To validate you and the values you claim make you superior. When the truth is we are just fancy monkeys. The only ones that put each other in cages, that relentlessly derive joy from ruining each other's lives. That construct elaborate ruses to assuage each other as to safety and the zenith of right and wrong realized and in action. No one knows why our minds sometimes take the turns that they do. Do you ever ask yourself why you need or want so much power? Control, influence. Who has what sickness and why? Is the sickness chosen much worse than an instinct acted upon? Isn't cold premeditated calculation much worse than an impulse? Each leaf, like a snowflake, is different. Similar, perhaps, but truly not "the same." Who cares though, right? It's the cookie cutter for all of them !

39

The cat’s gut, dried and twisted, sang out, stretched and braided, worked by the hands of the master. A mold formed its shape released from the plaster. They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain, the sun, and our pain the origins of soft meaningful refrain. The echoes that remain. recalled and loved by us all without much the strain. The origins oft considered now insane those creatures whose lives were lost, or even worse, were used or slain. The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick not too thin, not too thick. The human blood and ash put to wick, the scholar’s ink Don't dry too quick Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums, the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums. The pain it takes back to each creature , the creators. The destroyers. callused finger caresses banged thumb. cries are carried within it, our grief it helps us numb. We all howl still under the moon’s glow, hearing each other and our connection. Wandering in what direction. ? We feel what we feel, but how do we know what we know? The candle, made of discarded fat. The vellum, made of less than that. The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat tones that shiver, shrill or fat. The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust, capture take us to certainty, or lead us to rapture. The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed, but once they toiled. The lacquers and enamels and oils we crush from the life of plants and leaves, reminding us of the one for whom we still grieve. The worst of lies: that we are separated from this world. We are one with it, and we will share its fate, its riches, its seasons, its spoils. From whence does brilliance come? A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion. The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages, more than it lived, more than what it had to give. We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing fight and cheat to have it in our hands. Search far and wide, for every one, in every recess, in every land. Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash, make a material not often spoken of—gouache. We are looking at an egg, illuminated by dried fat and beeswax. We are inspired by a creature’s skin, flayed and beaten to a pulp, paper-thin. We are amazed by the ideas, and inspired by the truth within. Do we see its beginning in us, or our end? What do we use? For what we give back What do we gain and what do we lack? The energy to grow to achieve to believe to communicate. Elucidate. Try and relate We **** we suffer our art. Still we feel our worlds apart. Give back to me the howls of the alley cat the munch of teeth in the endless grass I'll take all that. The rhythm of the river the blood the stone the flesh the bone. But Alas I will leave this world as I came alone.

0

Mar 31, 2025

Mar 31, 2025 at 2:33 PM UTC

OldeMrHoover

The sources .

The cat’s gut, dried and twisted, sang out, stretched and braided, worked by the hands of the master. A mold formed its shape released from the plaster. They came, as do we all, from the earth and the rain, the sun, and our pain the origins of soft meaningful refrain. The echoes that remain. recalled and loved by us all without much the strain. The origins oft considered now insane those creatures whose lives were lost, or even worse, were used or slain. The turtle, for its shell, used as a pick not too thin, not too thick. The human blood and ash put to wick, the scholar’s ink Don't dry too quick Enemies skin stretched over the head of drums, the sound of fire and bent wood as it thrums. The pain it takes back to each creature , the creators. The destroyers. callused finger caresses banged thumb. cries are carried within it, our grief it helps us numb. We all howl still under the moon’s glow, hearing each other and our connection. Wandering in what direction. ? We feel what we feel, but how do we know what we know? The candle, made of discarded fat. The vellum, made of less than that. The strings of a bull, an ox, or a cat tones that shiver, shrill or fat. The thoughts and ideas, blood and lust, capture take us to certainty, or lead us to rapture. The potatoes boiled, the insect crushed, but once they toiled. The lacquers and enamels and oils we crush from the life of plants and leaves, reminding us of the one for whom we still grieve. The worst of lies: that we are separated from this world. We are one with it, and we will share its fate, its riches, its seasons, its spoils. From whence does brilliance come? A desire, a sleepless night, an explosion. The life that once lived sings back to us through the ages, more than it lived, more than what it had to give. We hear the tree of Stradivariuses' choosing fight and cheat to have it in our hands. Search far and wide, for every one, in every recess, in every land. Da Vinci, strokes of egg and wash, make a material not often spoken of—gouache. We are looking at an egg, illuminated by dried fat and beeswax. We are inspired by a creature’s skin, flayed and beaten to a pulp, paper-thin. We are amazed by the ideas, and inspired by the truth within. Do we see its beginning in us, or our end? What do we use? For what we give back What do we gain and what do we lack? The energy to grow to achieve to believe to communicate. Elucidate. Try and relate We **** we suffer our art. Still we feel our worlds apart. Give back to me the howls of the alley cat the munch of teeth in the endless grass I'll take all that. The rhythm of the river the blood the stone the flesh the bone. But Alas I will leave this world as I came alone.

109