#laborers - Hello Poetry

Stitch by stitch, fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms, eyes strained, backs bent, breath laced with dust and silence. A label whispers luxury, a name stitched in gold, but behind the seams, a child traces hunger with trembling hands. The clock does not sleep, nor do the hands that sew, woven into fabric priced in dollars, while wages shrink to cents. Promises drape the storefronts, Ethical. Sustainable. Fair. But behind factory doors, needles pierce more than cloth. Somewhere, a thread unravels, and a name is lost in the weave, a worker, a mother, a child. Their voices fade, but the machines never stop.

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Feb 25, 2025

Feb 25, 2025 at 1:10 AM UTC

amirmurtaza124

Threads of Exploitation

Stitch by stitch, fingers move like ghosts in dim-lit rooms, eyes strained, backs bent, breath laced with dust and silence. A label whispers luxury, a name stitched in gold, but behind the seams, a child traces hunger with trembling hands. The clock does not sleep, nor do the hands that sew, woven into fabric priced in dollars, while wages shrink to cents. Promises drape the storefronts, Ethical. Sustainable. Fair. But behind factory doors, needles pierce more than cloth. Somewhere, a thread unravels, and a name is lost in the weave, a worker, a mother, a child. Their voices fade, but the machines never stop.

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from his hand, the cotton folded, and from hers, she spun rough string. then from his, the letters bolded, but from her tongue no songs to sing. from his heart, he felt no pumping her cuts and scrapes had not left marks, from the wheel, he heard the thumping, from her eyes, she looked as stark. their posture spoke obedience, with feet and arms that hurt as such, in their thoughts, all fists were clenched, though their souls felt cold to touch. from his hand, the paper stolen, and from hers, the same, again, and in his mouth, the gums were swollen, her eyes, a place always like fen. “respect” their cold leader once said, “is what you ought to have.” their labor left them feeling dead, and for this, he had no salve. from the thread they harvested, they sewed him his expensive clothes, and once the laborers felt bested, he raised his hand, more came in droves.

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Oct 30, 2018

Oct 30, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC

deNegrePoetry

from those hands

from his hand, the cotton folded, and from hers, she spun rough string. then from his, the letters bolded, but from her tongue no songs to sing. from his heart, he felt no pumping her cuts and scrapes had not left marks, from the wheel, he heard the thumping, from her eyes, she looked as stark. their posture spoke obedience, with feet and arms that hurt as such, in their thoughts, all fists were clenched, though their souls felt cold to touch. from his hand, the paper stolen, and from hers, the same, again, and in his mouth, the gums were swollen, her eyes, a place always like fen. “respect” their cold leader once said, “is what you ought to have.” their labor left them feeling dead, and for this, he had no salve. from the thread they harvested, they sewed him his expensive clothes, and once the laborers felt bested, he raised his hand, more came in droves.

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There are grapes in my path This abundant trail now invisible as if we never were Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap for pleasure and pain I picked you some flowers, I baked you a pie, labors of love with your own hands connected to earth. Breaking backs, and clinging sweat Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton Keeping more out than simply the sun Depleted soil Exhausted soul Bursting with juice Bountiful and hand chosen And you in a hurry just drive by Dust in the wind Skin of clay mud Day after day, A boulder among the rows Hunched in fields Blistered and callused Searching for more Ripe for the picking Migrants moving Servitude by season Benevolent harvest Handpicked strawberries By chocolate covered hands destined from birth closer to earth.

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Aug 22, 2014

Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC

mutteredthemuse

The Grapes In My Path

There are grapes in my path This abundant trail now invisible as if we never were Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap for pleasure and pain I picked you some flowers, I baked you a pie, labors of love with your own hands connected to earth. Breaking backs, and clinging sweat Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton Keeping more out than simply the sun Depleted soil Exhausted soul Bursting with juice Bountiful and hand chosen And you in a hurry just drive by Dust in the wind Skin of clay mud Day after day, A boulder among the rows Hunched in fields Blistered and callused Searching for more Ripe for the picking Migrants moving Servitude by season Benevolent harvest Handpicked strawberries By chocolate covered hands destined from birth closer to earth.

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