"foreman" poems
The shopping channel calls to me
It wakes me up at night
To sell me things I do not need
Nor would buy, if I was right
But apparently, there's something wrong
My brain should be re-wired
I only purchase things on here
When I am really over-tired
I have a room specifically
For things bought on TV
I've ginsu knives and shredding blades
And juicers!!!...ninety three!!
For some reason the kitchen things
Just seem to catch my eye
Especially at three a.m.
That's the time I need to buy
I've magic bullets by the score
Processors, I don't need
But, if I ever put them all to use...
An army I could feed
I've got socks for diabetics
Things to make your ******* stand out
I've got exercise machines galore
I've got three things that help gout!
My credit card's at the limit
I know the numbers off by heart
The post man knows me by my name
I even have my own **** cart
To deliver all my purchases
They just load it and deliver
It almost comes here by itself
It's enough to make one shiver
I don't know how it started
I think the countdown clock...ah, yes
I thought it meant the game was ending
I phoned in and bought a dress!!!
I've got jewellery by Joan Rivers
George Foreman grills...they fill my den
I've got perfumes for the women
And lots of things that make you men!
My wife cannot contain me
She's sent me off to get some aid
But, if they sell it on the telly
I'll buy it sure as getting laid
I've bedazzled all my clothing
I eat dried fruit and jerky too
I get Christmas cards from Ronco
I'm a shopping ****** through and through
Each month we have a garage sale
I sell off some of what I've bought
But, then I go and buy it back again
Without a second thought
My friends have all but left me
I rarely go out of the house
I just sit here and go shopping
I don't even see my spouse
Set it and Forget it
That's a phrase I love to say
But wait, there's more...is another one
That helps me through the day
I used the last one on my wife
One night while having ***
She told me "Set it and Forget It"
I'm off to dreamland Tex!!
My shopping's an addiction
One I hope to beat some day
But now, the operator says...
I have to get my card and pay!
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.
Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the
Construction site.
*I wanna work like this when
I grow up,* he says in
Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach
And kneel down in front of
Him. *So you want a job,
Buddy?* I ask him with a
Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the
Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a
Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. *Well, I'll see you in a
Few years,* I say with another
Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,
*But you can start with this
And get some practice.* I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max
Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,
Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a
Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading
Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.
Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
When my father was a boy,
in the County of Tyrone,
His father owned a quarry
and he worked the fields of stone.
My Dad grew lean and hard
As he excavated stone
Yielding granite for stone carvers
And gravel aggregate for roads.
His hands grew strong and powerful
He had a muscular physique
He couldn’t read or write
But no one dared to call him weak.
When my Dad was in his twenties
He was working in the mines
Excavating British coal
at Newcastle on Tynes.
Later on in life
He was living in the “States”
Working in landscaping
on large Gold Coast estates.
When my Dad was in his fifties
He was digging graves by hand.
Once again in Fields of stone
a hard working Union man.
Each morning he’d rise early
And walk two miles to work
He never had an office
And he’d never be a clerk.
He rose to be a foreman
Working in that field of stone
And when darkness overtook him
It became his earthly home.
Now when I go visit him
I kneel and pray alone
Beside his Celtic Cross
standing in the field of stones.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
There, in the corner, staring at his drink.
The cap juts like a gantry's crossbeam,
Cowling plated forehead and sledgehead jaw.
Speech is clamped in the lips' vice.
That fist would drop a hammer on a Catholic-
Oh yes, that kind of thing could start again;
The only Roman collar he tolerates
Smiles all round his sleek pint of porter.
Mosaic imperatives bang home like rivets;
God is a foreman with certain definite views
Who orders life in shifts of work and leisure.
A factory horn will blare the Resurrection.
He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross,
Clearly used to silence and an armchair:
Tonight the wife and children will be quiet
At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.
4.8k
befriended by the builders
a building site next door
they gave her little jobs to do
although she's only four
when friday came,they even gave
her wages for the week
foreman smiled at sophie's joy
and tweaked her rosie cheek
off she went, to spend her pay
there was no way of stopping
a working girl with hard earned cash
so mummy took her shopping
hello mr sweetshop man
i've got cash to spend
been grafting with my muckers
an real job,....not pretend
are you working monday?
he passed her pick and mix
aye! if those wankers from jewson
bring the ******* bricks
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:05 PM UTC
sneaky stan, the builder man,
who laboured on the site
wheeled a barrow full of straw
for two weeks every night
foreman feared some pilfering
and searched it every day
he fumbled round, but always found
now't below the hay.
but sneaky stan, a gardening man,
unhappy with wage rates
had stolen fourteen wheel barrows
and sold em to his mates
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
I've borne the heavy load.
I've worked all the day.
Got two children at the house to feed.
Husband's gone away.
I've a bunion on my toe,
But I've got a corn pad.
With a smile upon my face,
Swear, it don't hurt so bad.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky!
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
My fingers gnarl and seize,
The handle's hard to grip.
I hope the boss don't send me home.
The kids have a field trip.
When the kids get on the bus
To travel out of town,
I might take a few days off
To lay my tired head down.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky.
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
I am faithful to the work.
I don't call in sick.
I'm hardworking as a man.
The foreman calls me "chick."
I never complain about my back.
Lord, He knows, I need this job.
I can take the stripes they give.
Don't give my raise to Bob.
Don't the moonlight look so grand,
Shining in the sky.
Walking home from second shift,
Clean cars are wizzing by.
There's a light mist in the air
That gives me some relief.
In the crock *** waits at home
Hash and good corned beef.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
I , Frank Wilson , would be lawyer , represent myself in this attack upon my honor ! For I am a studious , God fearing man ! I bow before no Judge , Lawyer or Constable ! Your court dwells beneath moral turpitude , a jury of my peers will soon know the truth !
I do not recognize that woman and child , I'll not pay the stipend your foreman has read out loud ! Your verdict means little in my hardened eyes , one that I refuse to recognize !
Bailiff ! Send for the State Patrol , summon the officer before this Court ! Take this man directly to jail ! I want him in Reidsville by five p.m. !
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
"Don't be
disgruntled."
He said to the foreman.
"So what if the building
is going to be late."
"Often buildings
are late and they
don't have any offspring."
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
I found -in the shadow of a
Crane rigged and ready- that
I couldn't help myself.
Took a ladder to the huge sphere
Of chipped and battered iron,
And threw one leg on either
Side of the chain.
Sang leaning and rocking
Into the walkie talkie
As my foreman spat his
Coffee not to choke; laughing along
With Swedes, Polish, Lithuanians
And Norwegians alike.
Miley. Bringing people
Together.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
Justice loves injustice
Doctor loves disease
Foreman loves damages
Livelihood for the sages.
I cry for justice bold ,sold
In deaf ear for years old.
Justice or my lawyer ,unjust
Put off hearing , file in dust.
Democracy or Bureaucracy
Suffocate in ugly Autocracy.
Political labour; unions cruel
Compel the subjects crawl.
Equality , freedom, justice
Sweet for poster slogans
Pay and use roads lead us
Pitiably to the island Mess
Of Fuss , hiss; kiss of miss
As frogs spring over Bliss.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
I sit on my **** by the fireside chair
and talk the mill talk to the calender man
but he doesn't care
he just watches his gauges and pressures
how precious he is
to the factory owner who allows him to live
on a pittance each week.
And while he clothes the World
in his mind he would seek
a botany bay
where his ancestors lay
and put roots in that ground.
The sound of the press, blocks the sound from the bell
just as well
because that ringing in his ears is not the bite from the future
but the teeth in the fears of his past
and another bolt of cloth has been passed by the foreman
and ticked off the list that he keeps in a book
to read to the crook who works in accounting
and pushed to the double entry
in another book amounting to
daylight robbery
but the snobbery of the age is another page set
in the mill town you get
****** all.
The fine hall's for the Master and all you survey
are the ruins that lie in the ruins of another day.
Get away
to get away and walk through a gateway into a better day
but the Devil you know is the Devil you pay and what would he say
if you jacked in the mill
and worked down the mines
better times indeed?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
You entered the single
factory door
into a noisy
and busy shop floor
with a guy called Brian
who was older than you
and had a worn
and worried expression
a foreman came
and asked Brian to go with him
and set him to some job
over the way
then he came to you
and said
what’s your name?
Collins
you said
right Colin
he said
follow me
and you were puzzled
why he had called you Colin
as you followed him
down the aisle
between machines
and people
he introduced you
to a middle aged dame
with glasses
who was short
and dumpy
there was another dame there
who was thinner
and a bit younger
who smiled
the plump dame
showed you around
her department
and set you to work
on a drilling machine
where you worked
most of the morning
then you had to go
to the work office
where a dame sat
you gave her the job sheet
how long were you
on the job?
she asked
about 6 inches
you said
she looked at you
a hint of a smile
on her lips
how long?
she repeated
how long what?
you asked
how long in time
were you on the job?
she said slowly
you said
3 hours it says here
mmmm
she said
you’re new aren’t you?
no
you replied
I’ve been around
for 21 years or so
she gazed at you
with her dark eyes
her lips were about to speak
but she nodded
then shut
the slide window
leaving you staring
at the window glass
you walked back
through the aisle
towards the plump dame
and her department
ready for the next job
before lunch
hoping it wasn’t
another drilling operation
but assembly
or cranking
or any other job
than drilling
thinking of the dame
in the office
and something
more thrilling.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
You will not break my spirit burning bright,
turn my day to terror'd night
you will not break my cities tall and proud,
run my family underground
you will not break me!
you will not rob my leaders of their will,
clergy of their faith,
you will not peel stripes from my face
poke holes through my stars
you will not get away with this!
you will not turn my red, white and blue
into painful black and blue,
you will not break my children's acrid innocence,
my freedom to endure,
you will not take my mother and hold her hostage,
break my back first man, 'cause I'll seek justice
I'm an American!
My colors do not run,
I'm black, white, brown, yellow and tan
I'm an American!
You broke into family's home
killed brothers and sisters
one day I will get you
because I'm an American!
and
you will not break me,
you will not break me,
you will not break the hope in my child's eyes
peace will prevail to your surprise,
love is strength in numbers,
your will is bound by hatred
America slumbers no more,
the giant has awaken and
years of complacent, fat-cat politics
is now down to ***** out heretics
I got *****
I got *****
I got ***** swinging from the hips of
Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull
ready to bounce you out of your holes!
I got soul,
I got soul
I got soul like no others got soul,
got soul like Tina Turner, James Brown,
Ella Fitzgerald and the New York City Fire Department
I'm an American!
I got heart,
I got heart like no others got heart
I got heart like the Tin Man found
I got heart like Tony Bennett, George Foreman,
Marlon Brando, Jesse Owens, BB King, John Belushi
Johnny Franco and the Miracle Mets!
I'm an American!
I'm an American!
and
you will not break me
you will not break me
you will not break me!
Frank Messina. 9/11/2016.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
Sembene Ouasmane the son of a fisherman
the son of wolof tribesmen the owners of Atlantic
you are a bad liar, my kinsman and foreman
why didn't you wait for me to grow up
you only belied to me for your to die earlier
i begged for your pipe for i also to **** it with passion
you told me to hold on until i grow up
only for you to accede to July death in 2007
i am tortured in this life without without you
agonized by daily chores without a glance at the fume of smokes
being blown from the magnificent ceramic pipe on your mouth,
i wanted you teach me what Maxim Gorky and Emile Zola taught you
i wanted to learn from you what you learned at the Moscow cinema school
was it cinematographic Marxism or filmographic socialism that you learned?
i wanted to get you alive so that we can sing together the songs of Cedo and Xala,
why were your gods collecting the pieces of wood; was it humility and humanism?
I wanted to see the powerful words of human side of governance
coming from you sober gentle mouth onto African plateau
that is replete with commonaplace selfish power struggles,
i will build a monument in respect of your service to African literature
and your service to protection of humanity;both Arabic and African
your service to humanity as you forgave a French woman who stole your book
only to publish it under her name in a dint of ****** wham pam pams.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
I will make a fangle of mechanisms,
a creature with iron snouts
and concrete aortas.
Its fevered howl will wake the duplexes
perched on sloped land,
built from collected tins and bottle caps.
Boys sooted in grief will balk like ravens,
chew sweet dip, and spit,
but never reach the foreman’s gate.
They’ll crave a tavern with antlers as chandeliers
where a black flame burns
on the brim of a zinfandel.
But tonight they’ll gristle through streets
to a stale room
where fluorescent lights blanch a young widow’s skin.
Basic cable ministries will flick and dim
in the homes of the wigged ladies who wait for them—
the howl keeps them
breathless, each of them fearing
the slow swallow from a snake’s mouth
to its furnace.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
It’ll be one of those lonely nights
where I’m sipping flat soda and watching That 70’s Show, one of those episodes where Foreman almost loses Donna
and suddenly you will come to mind and I will punch in
the numbers I know by heart.
It will only just register in my head that you
might actually pick up and as soon as I decide
to hang up, the tranquil voice I have yearned to hear will come on the line.
Hello? Hello?
I remember your caller I.D. is busted
and thank the Lord.
Hello? HELLO?
I can almost see your cheeks coloring in frustration
but every insecurity I had when we were together
seizes my throat with a cold, relentless grip
and all I can muster is a weak choking sound.
You try one last desperate greeting before clicking the phone shut,
and the hand loosens its grip to let me breathe,
but only for a moment.
Our relationship was eerily similar to that phone call.
I was the one drowning in sorrow, begging for you to rescue me
but I refused to learn how to swim, so you gave up and I never blamed you.
I still don’t.
With newfound determination I will quickly call back,
but when a high pitched voice filled with
nauseating optimism answers on the second ring,
I’ll remember that I was always the turbulent sea rocking our boat off course,
but I’ll be glad you found a shining lighthouse to lead you safely home.
I will hang up without a word.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Do you love him more than me?
Is there something beautiful and indistinct
In him?
Can you bow like never before,
A prayer of spine?
Do you kiss him like an angel,
And dole out your lips to the stupid others?
Does ignorance call your name,
And hope drive the nail?
When I see her again,
She hugs me casually,
And the smell of her hair
Is an ink,
On my wife-beater.
It soils, and oils
And stains.
Beneath the darkness of her car,
The shadows become loam,
And in the cabin she squeezes out a waving hand,
By the time she pulls away
I am working hard
not to pound her hood,
And demand a return trip
To the factory of my heart,
Where she could be a foreman
And wish things of me all day,
Working a hot sheet of my skin
Into a pliable mass,
And the body of my sins
Into the image of God,
So much so,
That the mere dream of that forge would make her stop
Her car
In the middle of the street,
Hop out,
And walk up to me, repeating a sentence in this gist:
She doesn’t know anything anymore,
Not even how she feels about him.
Make me that God of your
Life
Once more,
Deliver me from evil
And the hands of wickedness that render my soul.
I must be a God in your midst,
a love of the mist.
I know my sins,
I only call you when I'm drunk,
hollering your name
in hurtful epithets.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:55 PM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
For Beep & Sue Robinson, Foreman, Victoria Park Tunnel
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Died last night in her sleep,
Ninety years of age
Keeping secrets she would keep.
Last night she passed away
In her tiny single bed,
At the Onehunga rest home
Where she finally laid her head.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Lived her long life on the street
Helping other vagrants
Find a kinder place to sleep,
Helping other street kids
With the hassles of their day,
Sharing a quick cigarette
Or a dryer place to stay.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
In her ninety years of life
Had eighteen babies born to her
From sailors , waifs and like.
Eighteen babies born to her
Beneath the Grafton bridge,
Each with unknown fathers
Or a family heritage.
Auntie Elaine Kingie
As a girl danced out of class
Where the morning sunshine sparkled
On the crystal dew, clad grass,
And her green eyes shone with lustre
In her joy of dancing free,
Whilst the street kids stood in cluster
Quite entranced by what they see.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald green
Lived her days among the lost souls
Of the City Mission scene.
Life amongst free spirits
Was a chosen path for her
Shunning organised prosperity
With a structured raconteur.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald glass
Chose to die the way she lived
Quite serenely with her class.
Happy with the company
Of whom she would befriend
In the park surrounds of Auckland city’s
Busy people blend.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
Overkill, that's what this is, a battle uphill
Who cares? We're just in it for the thrill
Excuse me, miss, can I have the bill?
Pay it off with a twenty-dollar bill
Gotta get to the bullfighting in Seville
This is what I do, you could say I'm mentally ill.
Better get a check-up with Dr. Phil.
I'll just tell him rhymes are what I instill, its a unique skill
Keep doing this even when the world is spinning like a windmill
Like the Storming of the Bastille, there is no escape, take a sleeping pill
Deep water runs still, I'll toss you on a George Foreman grill
Make your Last Will and Testament, because this is overkill.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
All yearling spring birds far from distant home,
Xanthic in Gothic gospels soot and yolk,
Where's one's soft spoken voice to calm me on the phone?
Formidable pulses,
The danger of convulsion's spread on like buttered oil!!!
Enormity soil's the defendant delirium...
Such agnostic aquariums stinkingly similar upstate!
Broken lives to sunset drive,
Specimen speckles,
Forcible tassels hover one's decree!!
Litigious locust's buzz creepingly,
Indecently exposing all's funk!!!
Concauctions of fake adoption's,
Concievers break locks off trunks!!!
Omit me out of this obdurate oasis,
Wherein one feel's spacious,
Free to cometh and goeth!!!
Freedom doth thou know?
Operatic Mrs and Mr's,
Minuets for thy ridiculed wishes!!
Ponderer of newness,
Cleaner's as thy tub spills over,
Thy heels click together just to get thy kicks!!!
Hit the streets thou feathered bird of no beak,
Thou tally marker of no means!!!
Foreman to thy own people's idea's,
Nourish me with a new novice,
Nurture me with heartbrake hotel,
Buildeth me a standing ovation of a one love palace!!!
Brave heart fairytale,
Doth thou stand to move about?
Listener of radio tunes,
Art thou close??
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
If time is relative then why are we moving at all?
I look around
and to me we all seem to be standing still...
Frozen in our civic and social duties.
Like watching a game show,
Or buying a frozen pizza.
...dressing up to go to church.
We become frozen in these moments and they end up defining who we are instead of the other way around.
Maybe the world is in an event horizon and I am stuck outside watching everyone seem to move in no direction at all.
Yet I see myself as well.
Sitting completely still and becoming a mannequin...
I would say that we are moving towards a black hole,
******* the light and life out of us,
but that would be foolish.
Because we are the black hole.
We steal the life and desire.
Hopes and dreams
from ourselves and throw our souls away for a paycheck and death certificate.
If I could find the warehouse of man and stumble upon the assembly line, I would shoot the foreman and break the machine.
Then
I
would
burn
that
building
to
the
ground...
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC