"conveyor" poems
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Smelly Feet
In the sun, feel the heat,
and the odor of my smelly feet.
All people squeezing their nose,
from the cheese between my toes.
Shoes melted on the road,
smell spreading to the next zip code.
Even I'm wearing a gas mask,
sipping whiskey from my flask.
Feet burning as I start to run,
stick a fork in them, they're done.
Still a mile left to go,
I can see my feet as they glow.
Leaving melting skin far behind,
left sunglasses home and going blind.
Hot tar starting to melt,
I'd do anything for a conveyor belt.
Soaking feet when I get home,
Pretty soon, I will see bone.
My house is just down the block,
vultures circling as they stalk.
Getting worse is the odor,
laughing at me is the Caddyshack gopher.
The Rock wants to know what I'm cooking,
it's my feet, that is brewing.
The smell is spreading worldwide,
my feet are now Kentucky fried.
People cheer as I reach my door,
**** my feet are very sore.
Sprayed my feet with tough acting Tinactin,
burned so bad it melted the rest of my skin.
Soaked my bones in cold water,
never have I felt a road more hotter.
Sprayed Fabreze for about an hour,
then I took a long cold shower.
Moonshine and pain pills dull my pain,
it was my own fault so can't complain.
Now I wear special shoes,
my smelly ***** feet even made the news.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
*No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse*.
Eve
I'm sure red's a better color for me.
M. Monroe
She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Ulysses
*Now that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.*
D. Trump
You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
S. Freud
No. You keep it. I have enough.
B. Graham
Are you sure that's the Delaware?
G. Washington
E=Mc Donalds.
A. Einstein
Go pound salt.
Gandhi
What day is it?
Roosevelt
That's one small.... oops!
N. Armstrong
I don't remember any of my dreams.
M.L. King, Jr.
Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
Jesus
Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
W. Churchill
Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
R. Starr
It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
S. Hawking
Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
Robespierre
Before I was fined, I walked the line.
J. Cash
Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
Tolstoy's editor
What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
H. Ford
I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
Oppenheimer
I've never liked orange juice.
N. Brown
Really? You want to blame me?
******
He stings like a butterfly.
S. Liston
#timesup #metoo
A. Boleyn
Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
Bell
Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
R.W. Sears
To be or to do be do be do.
Shakespeare/Sinatra
*When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin ****** off.*
E. Whitney
We're the team to beat!
Toronto Maple Leafs
Don't call me a Mother!
Mother Theresa
Is that a Cuban?
M. Lewinsky
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory.
Because flowers.
Supposing friendly.
What if therefore.
You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery
For after yellow.
Beside a lake.
Through crimson humility.
I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale
Melodic franchise.
Hypothesize sunbeams.
And if replace me.
You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of
liquidated mellow
jurisdiction.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
I am not scared and I will be strong. I’ve been lonely for ten years and now, I can see what has been gone. I am taken to a different place, far from home. The plane took me high and soared until things got low. I walked down the hallway of doom and distress. This wouldn't be a problem if he had never left. Walk into a room thats plain yet, engaged in activity. A conveyor belt and tags that say names, scrambled in my mind going their separate ways. I tell myself to focus and find my bags from here. The voices and the noises distract me, nothing has been clear. I see my name as nauseous as I can be. My stomach has taken a turn on me.
I find my bag and look around my vision is blurred and I can not hear a sound. I see his face threw the sea of people. Wearing the same flannel sweater he had ten years ago. He dominates the atmosphere with his torn up pants and his messed up hair. He looks the same but his hair is receding. His face is drooped down like paint that just won't dry. He grew tall but skinny like a plant that has withered. His face is pale but his eyes are rich brown. He has a genuine smile with teeth that had fallen out.
I walk up to this man I haven't seen in years we looked at each other and, we burst out in tears. Even though I don’t know him, I remember his face. From ten years passing by I’d imagine he's changed. He use to be plump and his face well rounded now it looks like he had been beaten by thoughts and loneliness. I can tell when he seen me his life already got better. He couldn’t stop talking like he was gone for forever. I talked right back to him because, I know how it feels.
I look back on all the years without him and realized we feel the same. The difference is he made the choice of being alone ,I had no need to be left. I felt lost my whole life, until he came back. Lost from what I can’t quite figure out. I just needed to feel the feeling of him being around. We walked out the crowded place and, went on from there. No one really changes, he still smelled like beer. You think someone would give up the little things for something so big. I left a couple days after, and haven’t seen my dad since. He chooses to be lonely and, I still suffer from it.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
*we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time*
1.
we are witness..
shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever rewritten
control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said
2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!
eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your **** your **** your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!
thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!
3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls
we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely
we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor
we are witness
dictata.. dictata..
we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat
we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast
we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )
*only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence*
tick-a-damn-tock
and that would be..
one
S T - 26 sept
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.
Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.
Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.
I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.
Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.
I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.
Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.
Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.
I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.
So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.
The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.
The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.
The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.
A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.
The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.
Yes this is all football.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
maybe a black mouth
opening and closing
usually you can see the gums
the teeth
lips stretching over them
there’s nothing
a gaping entrance to the void
there are two stale muffins on the table
one soaking in milk
it’s been two hours now
the room at the top of the stairs
is growing louder and louder
a piercing bellow
drowning out all thoughts
but it doesn’t
i want to scream
throw myself into it until my entire being is lost
between the teeth
the white black lacuna
corn splitting from the cob
a rotting banana
an empty carton of milk
my god, could life be any more boring?
i caught a cold
sneezed at the floor
achoo achoo
get well soon cards at my funeral
loraclear on my casket
dirt over
grow me like a mushroom
expanding into the root systems
puffing into a bulbous fruit
pick me and slice me
but i trust only supermarket goods
picked by mechanised beings
******* on an industrial conveyor belt
modernity made physical
look into the slaughterpens while you eat your steak
barter your children for another shot of coffee
hah hah hah, doesn’t affect me
strutting your cash like an empty slot machine
rigged to emote only with your colleagues
while the television blares another thousand deaths
**** this ****** world
consume me until there’s nothing left
everyone’s a nihilist
someone brought back a dozen breadloaves from the women’s refuge
eat them before they go off
turning our bodies
pouring soap down the sink
all the fishes scales rot away
they slowly sink into the depths
and line the seabed with teeth and ribs
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Teachers are working organs in a sick body
Constantly challenged out of our comfort
Lungs expected to pump blood
A stomach that can't break down
Hearts begged to filter water
Diluting our true purpose
Administrators cannot function without us
A body is working system
Not a conveyor belt of replaced organs
Death is known from organs going on strike
Sickness can only last so long before we pass
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
I shed tears
You shed humanity
I dread and fear
Your unstable insanity
You loosen your compassion
Like it's your belt
For it's in your fashion
To inflict welts
On the ground I knelt
Doubled over in pain
From a punishing rain
My eyes welled up and my vision got blurry
I was unable to break your encryption of fury
My mind was in constant examination
Of your gift of violent contamination
Lines were crossed on my back
Living life on your torture rack
You become my God
You never spare the rod
My brother may be able
But I'm on *******
I turned the tables
By torching my brain
On the ****** train
I invented a game
Out of ruining your creation
My veins experienced deflation
Until I saw the error of my ways
Adopting your negative craze
You wanted me to get used to pain
But I'd rather get used to change
The effects of corporal punishment are felt
When society hits us with a conveyor belt
Convincing us if something worked it must continue to
Our childhood experience this is imprinted through
We figure our children must be belted
After our minds have been smelted
Forged in fire
Our hearts retired
As we grew colder
The beaten grew older
And reproduced
And re-introduced
A punishing perception of the world
They beat the clam that holds the pearl
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 6:06 AM UTC
And the question is, “What constitutes the good life?” And the neurons in my brain automatically begin to connect and arrange themselves into a conveyor belt of possible responses. This is not about fancy cars and giant mansions. This is about searching high and low for the unique existence of character buried in the depths of your heart. The labyrinth of suffering is something that traps and consumes every single one of us. Being aware and accepting the circumstances that will occur after exploring all the different solutions of discovering a way to escape is a major fundamental element needed to survive. Ostracizing yourself from the countless number of distractions in today’s generation to truly identify your individuality is the most crucial procedure in recognizing an outbreak from conforming to false associations. Infinite minutes are wasted every day because there are numerous amounts of interruptions that interfere with our life’s mission. Eliminating these disturbances will erase people’s impulses to shake hands with laziness. More people need to realize that utilizing time and wisely spending the precious moments we have left should be more carefully valued before it is too late. At times like this, it is perfectly acceptable to be self absorbed on account that working towards a goal is in effect. Take the time to focus on figuring out how to learn and how to proceed in expanding the mind’s personality. It is so important to acquire the ability to control the aspect of reason. But once enough experience is achieved to gather the information on how to conquer the labyrinth of suffering, you will then inaugurate the good life.
There is only one way to assemble the knowledge as to where the door lies and that is by simply living life and never giving up. Take chances and live on curiosity. We learn by putting ourselves in situations that are out of our comfort zones, giving the opportunity to mess up. Overcoming the situation is when we gain the confidence to promote ourselves to the next level. Life is full of mistakes but it is about being intelligent about those obstacles. Building up from those faults and taking advantage of everything life offers. We will move on from every mistake only to come face to face with another one. But life carries us. It challenges us. And the brave souls that accept that challenge are the ones that go on living the good life.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
Wish life was at least as explicable as The HMM,
But alas! It's even more complex.
You may understand The HMM one day,
But not your life and interactions.
In probability & statistics,
A Markov chain or Markoff chain or a Markov Process,
Named after the Russian mathematician Andrey Markov,
Is a stochastic process that satisfies the Markov property
And is usually characterized as "memorylessness".
Imagine an urn experiment with replacement,
Hidden Markov Model can be visualized likewise.
***Consider a hidden room with a genie inside,
The room has N urns with n ***** in each.***
*The genie chooses an urn in that room,
He randomly draws a ball from the urn.
He then puts the ball onto a conveyor belt,
Which is being observed for the sequence,
Only the ***** on the conveyor are visible,
Not the urns from which they were drawn.
The genie has a procedure to choose urns,
The choice of the urn for the n-th ball,
It depends only upon a random number,
And the choice of the urn for the (n − 1)-th ball.
The choice of urn does not directly depend on
The urns chosen before this single previous urn;
Therefore, this is called a Markov process.*
***Hidden Markov models model complex Markov processes,
Where the states emit the observations according to a distribution.
One such example is a Gaussian distribution,
In such a Hidden Markov Model,
The state's output are represented by a Gaussian distribution.***
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
They say, “Take the ****** out of your mouth.”
But all the success ahead of us is merely comfort; comfort that our father's could never give us. It's OK though, everyone needs control. Time is strong and constantly moving, everyone needs a direction to avoid their minds being ripped in half. After all, Individuality is just a controlled habit of protection walking.
Walking fast. Walking slow. Walking in step with someone else.
Walking right in. Walking right through. Walking right on out.
Walking backwards. Walking forwards. Walking in a big circle.
We're walking on our conveyor belts and one day they'll tell us to watch our step, we're getting off.
Sometimes you sneer at the lower paths and ********** to the higher ones.
You could fall off your own road at any moment so
you shouldn't strain your neck like that.
Sometimes you stop to kneel down on one knee.
You're pretending to tie your shoes but
they're always knotted.
Sometimes you jump a thousand lanes,
hoping someone is watching your majestic leaps.
Will they follow you wherever you go?
And where exactly
are you going anyways?
What they'll tell you:
What's Right.
What's Wrong.
What's Real.
What's Love.
What they didn't tell you:
How to Believe.
How to Embrace.
How to have Faith.
How to Love.
“Take the ****** out of your mouth.”
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
Even the carpet is woozy from my pacing
up and down the locker bay conveyor belt.
I was already woozy, when I woke up.
Was it cloudy,
or sunny?
Just in between,
stuck, like an awkward dream.
It tasted like rotten eggs
and artificial bacon.
Then, it tasted like *****
and cool hard stares.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
X marks the spot,
A man in overalls and rubber gloves tells me
Go stand there, son
And pick the bones & beaks
Out of the
Chicken press
The whole factory reeked of ammonia
I went home reeking of ammonia.
Chicken conveyor-belts
With upside-down chickens on hooks
Riding slowly over one master neck-splitting saw
Heads in baskets
For when the master saw cuts too deep
I watched them come
& go...
The factory was filled with silent mechanical drumming
Eventually,
I went home
Silent & mechanical.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 6:55 AM UTC
you can't possibly think i've been that mislead
by the simple words and excuses you've used.
for one reason or another, you continue,
and i'm feeling my kindness is abused.
i'm not one to really speak up much,
and really say how it is i feel.
but you need a reality check,
because nothing you say is real.
you keep pushing what's the truth as false
and the falsehoods i find to be quite real,
and it's beginning to make me really question,
whether or not you have the sensation to feel.
and if you do, i'm sure it's not prevalent,
for i've known the way you've said you've felt.
and as you pass through life in line,
how's that ride on the conveyor belt?
you're bound for an end, similar to all else's,
and you're bound to be quietly disappointed
in the mass amount of disappointment
you're only bound to find that's been anointed
into the fabrics, frayed and torn of your being.
but i know there's not much hope left,
that what you're really feeling at all
is nothing but a spacious cleft
in your heart.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
I need to write a slam
what about
about people
about places
about money
about faces
I am a human being
not to be judged about my creativity
judged on my productivity
Not an object
I will not be contained by letters on a page
A page written by people who don’t know me
Claim they can show me
a picture is worth a thousand words
they say
Then what is a face worth
Starting at birth
we trap ourselves
limit ourselves to these words crammed together
letters
these small portrayals
to who I am
I stare
stare in a mirror
reflection getting clearer
clarification getting nearer
you’re pretty they say
then they turn around and you hear
‘she’s already classified’
classified as average
nothing special
You’re telling me
I am pretty
I am witty
A 5 letter portrayal
of a person
will not define me
will not make me
show me
who I am
I am not an object
not to be used as a pawn in the
circus we’ve happened to be spawned
into
The way i see it
there are few
few people to realized I am not contained by a page
nor a word
And I will stand up and be heard
I stand to say
Someday
fairness will come my way
When you will not be able to
confine a person in one word
nor a hundred
Someday you will ask yourself
Will I be okay
You will be okay at somethings
great at other things
But you will be outstanding at everything
Stop limiting yourself to a definition
only in words
define your self in actions
pick yourself apart in fractions
Change your life in transactions
and stop worrying about what your new definition is
I hear small voices begging to be defined
Tell me I’m pretty they say
pretty what
Pretty desperate
Pretty pathetic
Pretty separate
separate from those who choose to be content
being undefined
becoming redefined
staying behind
Hiding our plastered on definitions
Plastered to these facades
That become flawed
splitting apart at the seams
limiting your dreams
but brief descriptions
plated to our foreheads
So Pretty
Really Witty
What a Pity
Pity it is to let others define you
Your own self becoming blurred
These small molds called words
Taking you and forming you
into a conveyor belt barbie
The same as her
no different than she
But I will be me
I will be heard
I Will Never Be Defined
By Just Words
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
I just feel like
Nothing's personal anymore.
I can't help but feel like
I'm nothing important anymore.
Like a box on a factory belt, you do your thing,
onto the next one,
I'm just another box,
What difference do I make?
I just feel like
Nothing's personal anymore.
We used to synchronize without realizing.
We used to pull up at the same time and pretend not to see each other
Until one of us would say hello
Or one of us would casually walk into the other
No big, but really
It felt personal.
I just feel like
Nothing's personal anymore.
I used to look for you.
You used to look out for me.
It's not the same, but that's alright
I still look for you
You don't look out for me any more than you do everyone else.
I just feel like
Nothing's personal anymore.
My heart is battered and bruised and torn and fractured and sprained and pulled
And you are a robot on a machine programmed and taught
After all this time, after all this time, you'd think I'd get the message
And I do
But I don't know how to stop
I just know now that
Nothing's personal anymore
Except for my feelings for you
And how worried I get when you don't turn up in the morning
And how anxious I get when you walk into school with deep sunken eyes
And how betrayed I feel when I see you walk and talk to her like you walked and talked to me
And I realize now that it wasn't personal
Well, it was for me but
For you? No. I was just another box on a long conveyor belt,
Another grey brick
Everyone is the same
No one stands out
It's not personal.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
Instead, you play the part fully
As the intellectual bully
Disregarding the tears
Throwing misspelled word spears
Wielding grammar hammers
Pouncing when someone stammers
Hey, Bro! Don't you even know
What time it is?
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
You say you're a godly player
But you're really a Sibboleth slayer,
An ill will conveyor,
Grand total naysayer,
Once you went away but then came back
Unbelievable, you're even more whack!
Hey, Bro! Don't you really know
What time it is?
Time to stop judging
Best to confess
Hiding behind your SOS
Feelings of others you ignore
Drama and chaos you adore
With your moralistic writes
Acerbic word fights
Sarcastic bites...
Why can't you be nice?
TONEY OUT - BOOM!
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 11:21 AM UTC
you of pharmaceutical lens,
Concrete handed
sharp edges rounded,
colours slandered,
you womb-safe,
blanketed,
bleeting sounds
non-threatening,
Shadow individual
Deodorant mojo,
the man-made park,
well governed hair
lips are moist and plumped up,
a conveyor belt human,
bowel movements and idle chatter are corporate losses,
Neglect that which is outside this Kingdom,
the office must remain hermetically sealed to ensure maximum shareholder profits
breathing in sand and time,
this here void of monotony,
numbly dispirited
poor food and no discipline (that's you),
face is sallow
sagging,
you are nothing,
not really,
your bonus will be paid at the end of this month.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
The fast lane is too **** slow
Stop signs never turn to go
The geniuses just do not know
The fast lane is too **** slow
I'm tired of nothingness
Monotonous, lonely, stupid ****
Careful kids and reckless authority
Empty, broken, stupid conformity
The fast lane of moving assembly lines
The same **** action every time
"Gimme, gimme, it's all mine!"
Conveyor belts and assembly lines
I'm gonna go against the majority
Redefining your priority
Careful kids and reckless authority
Empty, broken, stupid conformity.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
I am daydreaming about making a difference in this corrupt, broken world but all I can do is to solve tasks that have already been answered. Second after second, year after year, I sit behind bricks in a ramshackle school where everyone are as prisoners in an alternative prison, where the years disappear in meaninglessness. Let me knock down walls and build them again, help the world instead of sitting as a product on a conveyor belt in the middle of a mass production of individuals that have solved the same tasks with the same answers, behind the same wall, at the same table, just to be able to put a way too expensive student cap on ones head and to call oneself a student. But what does it actually mean to be a student? Are you not just another number in the row, yet a grade point average, another helpless individual who can only solve problems where the answer already exists in a rule book. Let me knock down the world and build a new one, where mass production of students does not take place, but where anyone can build a future of new ideas and not only find errors on the old. But before I'm done daydreaming, tens of thousands of old assignments end op on the table, and I must sit on the chair a little longer as the conveyor belt keeps on going.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC