#drudgery
Spring semester has started.
We’re all immersed in the ritual of change
and totally committed to that descent into madness
to the relentless drabness, the flatness, the blandness
for the hours, days and weeks of study
and a bone-deep fatigue that’s actually funny
We’ll live at the edge of intensity
near the the corner of drudging
and gather around the printer
at the media center
like a secular rite of passage
I think I need a daily grind—to keep my mind busy.
What’s wrong with me, that when I’m on vacation, I miss it?
What if work/study is one of my bone-marrow-deep love languages?
.
.
Songs for this:
Happy Dreamer by Laid Back
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
(You're Better) Than Ever by illuminati hotties
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 6:32 AM UTC
It’s again that time of day
To sit staring
At the blank page
That tempts me to resign
Conceed my opinion and drive
To continue this daily stride
But i get over it
And i press the keyes
And write untill im all used up
And hav e no life left to spend
It’s all dread and drudgery
Life is
The highlights only shine so bright
Because there’s n o competition
Around them to outshinte
I can feel myself change
With every steting sun
For each one
Encompasses me in a tidal wave
Im’ urning into somthing,
Someone i am not
Can you sense it too?
Or have you alread y forgotten
That the winter breeze has departed,
And the lihtg push against you
Is my exhale,
Chilling you to your bones
When did I become so cruel?
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC
You came to me like a fairytale,
I held you close; I looked into your eyes,
they were deep and full of soul; chancing fate.
I kissed your neck and shoulders, your belly and your ***
We took each others bodies and tasted freedom.
~
I couldn't help feeling this was your one and only,
A secret that you'll keep to your self ~ "A happy thought!"
Secure in the knowledge that you were once utterly cherished;
And that you alone would choose martyrdom; rather than embracing me.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
Black sky turning blue,
Waking up to a prosaic view,
Thinking how to make do,
With the life I’ve brewed.
Walking on the busy streets,
Looking down at my feet,
Like another rat on the wheel,
I am running till I bleed.
Office drudgery from nine to five,
Listening to people with plain lives,
Wondering if they have fire inside,
Feeling lost as time flies by.
Standing under the moonlight,
Rows of towers sparkling white,
Gazing at the star-speckled sky,
Wanting to shun the city lights.
Coming back home hollow,
Trying not to accept my sorrow,
Playing music on the radio,
Tapping my feet, sitting alone.
Standing up with full grace,
Embracing music with a craze,
Rejuvenating my mental state,
Becoming sane once again.
Gliding through the air,
Pirouetting with a swan-like flair,
Unleashing emotions with tears,
Feeling complete in my lair.
Crashing peacefully into bed,
Rhythmic rising and falling of breaths,
Still wondering how to reset,
The vicious cycle that I dread.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Passions, pleasure now feel like a chore,
making my life a bore
and my mind sore.
Tick, tock
Time is valuable
panic rises,
for there is a mental rigid routine to abide by.
But now my soul wears a dress,
which is stress.
Watching shows, self care and reading books
which once upon a time used to be relaxation,
have now become a cross off a to do list.
Losing interest in my mundane life,
I find my breath meaningless,
waking up pointless and have
life just drag my corpse with time.
There are mountains;
burdening my mind and scraping my heart.
A soul of a robot is what I have,
except that I have a voice that complains
and ears that hear commands,
creating havoc on my mood and mind.
All what I loved, became
‘have to’ and ‘should do’,
a daunting tasks
requiring more effort than it did before.
Life seem drudgery and draining to wake up to.
But It was all about approach and perception.
Digging deeper with why,
I found reasons and meaning behind my life.
It was about relishing in the process,
rather than completing them.
In the errands for others; I searched for joy of my own.
Unleashing creativity in daily mundane activities,
it did not seem robotic no more.
Rediscovering happiness and enthusiasm,
making it interesting by sharing and snapping,
I set lose from the chains of my routine by reinvigorating spontaneity.
For what felt like burden, wasn’t meant to be felt like a burden.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.
I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.
I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say
What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery
When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
Chained to Work
Released through Verse
Back from the Brink
For better or for Worse!
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
Many more steps to go.
Hardened feet.
No longer are my steps maligned by stabs of blood.
Condemnation . . . Damnation . . . Corruption . . .
My seasoned back launches into my perennial burden.
And another step I take.
Into an inevitable future of drudgery.
Hope . . . Exoneration . . . Absolution . . .
Have long been forgotten.
Their burnt ashes adorn my forehead.
My shoulder screams ahead, into the weight it upholds.
Rumble . . . Rumble . . . Rumble . . .
Each step like the millions before it,
thrusts the stone another foot towards the jagged peak
that towers impressively up ahead.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the day goes on.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the night lives long.
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
My war-torn muscles relax.
And the stone sits.
Stares at the valley below.
Lightning . . . Rain . . . Thunder . . .
The wind caresses and cajoles,
And the stone rolls down below, echoing Thor’s exclamations
And my heart leaps with joy.
After all, there will be another day.
And my feet have hardened anyway.
Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . .
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
I’ve been a busboy, a waiter,
A salesman for road crews
A cook and a soda ****
The American market is
Not set up that well for
Kids who want to work.
Before I was twenty five
I’d had eighty different jobs
Some of them at the same time.
Some parents think their kids
Are a good source of income.
Others think that is a crime.
I suppose it’s one thing
If the kid picks his own job;
Does what he wants with money.
But robbing his stash
When he is out working
Is not even close to being funny.
And keeping a youngster
Both working and schooling
And no social or playtime is sad.
It robs him of childhood
And rips off all his ambition.
The child has to somehow turn bad.
Maybe it only trusting
That the kid learns not to do.
Maybe that dreams don’t come true.
Maybe the kid learns
His hard work and dedication
Only gets him blisters when he’s through.
That was all true of me;
I did what I was told and
I learned that joy and accomplishment
Earned no praise for the doing
Only produced, if I didn’t work hard
A tremendous amount of admonishment.
So, when I left home
I had no direction in mind;
I looked ahead to sixty more years
Of working and being robbed
By people I wanted to trust
And not even being capable of tears.
This may sound like a whine
Blaming and much worse
A griper that’s totally out of line.
But what it really means
Is your kids aren’t your slaves
To be put to work in some coal mine.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
I’m just trying to get through the day
Trying to find the right words to say
To keep my luck from going south
To keep my feet out of my mouth
To find the right games to play.
Nobody to play with anyway.
Hoping for a brighter day,
Just trying to get through today.
Some of the people around me
Sometimes seem to surround me
Even when I don’t call them to me
It can make me a bit gloomy.
It’s not like they’re my college roomy.
So they often even astound me.
I wonder how they found me.
I don’t like them close to me.
I try to keep my nose to the wheel
My **** in my seat, but maybe I feel
A bit under the management’s thumb;
That it’s better to act rather dumb
Than call attention to my non-zeal
And disbelief that this is all real.
I mean, I push the stone uphill daily.
Is it meant that I accomplish it gaily?
After all, I’m not saving lives here.
I’m just packaging a lot of beer,
Or counting busy streams of cases,
Along with others without faces.
Our job is just exactly that kind;
It is meant to be a mindless grind.
It’s not meant to be any fun.
It is just that which must be done.
So tote that barge, lift your weary ****
I know to keep my big mouth shut.
Don’t compare notes, especially about pay
Or they let you go at the end of the day.
That’s who I am, a regular working slob.
Count my blessings I even have a job.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
in the hustle of minutes
cracking underneath the dome of blue-black pressure,
it is in some strange way undiscovered
that our bodies decree the foolishness of hours.
triggered to a stirring, these thrills that seek flounce,
a **** stretch of linear roads that connect to nothing.
the daily commute sings elegiac, pressed against
signs foretelling of destinations that still themselves
know not of a trap of steel when our lives
start to bind madly against us, a rebel.
overtaking us, our lives, in speeds all ruthless
and forceful, like an instantaneous drag of something that persists
to writhe out and refuse to be pinned down.
a roomful of hollow yet nobody to notice equally,
this given purpose, or a deeply stabbing fabulation.
our able bodies give way no longer and break,
reduced to threadbare, this senseless act of worship.
of wasting away hours and mourn the passing of twilights.
we can no longer choose – we catapult into the pith
of these contestations and resign longer than imagined,
our ways are discourses, our life so suddenly
insecure of our remorseless entrails, oh how we have starved
ourselves for long and heed like stone,
the suddenness of our aches when our souls
cease to believe, when our hearts refuse to unfurl
a love christened with silence, when our hands
insurmountable with the mountains deadened
by a plenitude of echoes reaching for a still image -
ourselves, dragged buoyantly and airless –
wearing a face of torment we cannot voice out.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
I could stay up like I always do
Browse the web
Read or write a poem or two
Continue with the cycle:
Long for meaning,
Get eaten by pain,
Fail to sleep,
Barely get through work,
Repeat
But tonight, instead,
I'll just go to bed
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC