"hairpin" poems
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race
to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade
around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?
they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line
exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown
I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady
I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm
If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw
I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.
He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck
Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.
Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—
Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.
Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.
Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.
This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.
I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:02 AM UTC
It didn't make sense
It felt Fingers
Chain link fence
So the moon dim
Gibbus tide riddle
Keep your wheel in the hairpin
Bite a hook
You'll be my friend
Go ahead
Spike the ocean
A drop of salt blood
The wolf of horizon runs
Spilling fangs of
red dwarf sun
Can you water:
Crash against the rock
Until pieces of you break off
Pristinely lying on my skin
Think air until you hear
Grandeur breath of leaves
Mountain or dog
Sing songs of love
Goodbye
White cheek
Spun in moonlight
Foot to the path
Song on the tounge
Free til I'm dog
Whiskey til I'm drunk
Hold my breath
Count to ten
Blue eyes / begin again
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
When you look at me without
speaking like some doe-eyed
Guatemalan selling watermelons
on the corner of Forest Hill
and Military Trail, your
disbelief triggering in the hinges
of your jaw like a hairpin turn,
reaction time looming
as endlessly as a broken synthesizer,
I begin to need you, darling,
like the axe needs the turkey.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a
long, peaceful stretch
of highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel,
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt, and ultimately
disappears.
Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 12:44 PM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
Hot boys express emotion
in the resonance and width of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and bitch-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.
Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.
Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
~
*Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown
Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells*
~
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 11:46 AM UTC
When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,
By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.
“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
[Passed down from one generation to the next,
Dating back to an invaded India,
Surviving six hundred soldiers,
Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
Stories etched in souvenir gold].
“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
[Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
A physical furthering,
From my immigrant ancestors,
Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].
How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
*They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.
Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.
Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.
Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.*
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"
Let not the deep cup be filled
with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
even before I was drunk.
Distant bells have already echoed
in the evening breeze.
My dream is broken
as the scent of incense vanishes.
Too small, the hairpin of the gold
of warding-off-cold
loosens its hold of my tresses.
I awake to find myself blankly facing
the red flickering glow
of the candle.
1.5k
your hands were smooth in california but i miss them
rough, on mine, in toledo
and in far-off colorado where you decided
you wanted to learn how to ski
and i sat moody at the bottom until you flew down
to meet me,
and we swapped warmth and tongues and promises
because flying with you is the only way i’d ever let my feet
leave the ground.
and your palms were scraped and charred in california but
three years ago to date they were flat on my
chest when we moved together - in and around and
with each other
and you’d whisper love into my knuckles as i hummed you to sleep
because you might’ve learned to run but i’ve been
hobbled with you my entire life and **** i’d die a thousand times over
just to see you smile.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
Another day starts
another night gone
where did the time go?
where did I go wrong?
missing my former self
like a long lost friend
but I wish him good health
can only reach him by pen
I haven't slept yet
there's one letter I gotta send
can't look in the mirror
too tired, when is it gonna end
a thousand questions no answers
why the **** am I like this?
a life is built on little chances
maybe it's genetic, fantastic
if I had kids and they got this
if I had a mind then I've lost it
if I can't bare the pain myself
how can I share this sadness?
but I already do
because it's madness for two
to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to the meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I love ya
to the thing I am
to the man I was
the pressure is pressure
and I'm a hairpin trigger
something hard yet soft
like my wasted brain
when will I go off?
every suicidal thought
has got me caught off guard
nobody said it would be easy
never said it would be this hard
feel like I'm watching my life
end from afar, everyday is
an outer body experience
restlessness got me delirious
and I just thought about death
again so this could be serious
Can't see a way out today
chemical imbalances are not okay
stopped taking my meds
want to lose the fight my way
**** what the doctors say
it's all well and good to say
it helps to talk to someone
but I can't find the words today
to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to my meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I miss ya
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
"The first time I saw her...
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or ******* talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was
just making her late for work...
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on."
Neil Hilborn
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Life wears me out with
its twists and turns
and hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a long
peaceful stretch of
highway, bathed in
the rising sun;
a golden wheat field
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to
gravel and rapidly
climbs uphill.
There are signs along
the way that promise
the world.
The road becomes narrow,
turns to dirt,
and ultimately disappears.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 9:20 AM UTC
Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.
The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.
This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long bitter winter.
The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.
Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,
Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
I miss your absence like curdled milk misses it's white. I miss the sourness of your hair running through my fingers.
I miss your absence like an anorexic misses their bones. They go searching for them, ripping up flesh and drinking water in place of anything, filling the hole in their mind that can't be filled with cake. The sweetest of chocolate cake, frosting topped grave marker. It can't be filled. Cannot be filled.
I miss your absence like winter misses her green. She covers it up, buries it beneath such a heaviness. It sits upon her chest like white elephants.
You hold yourself like a hairpin turn. You are sore, aching from sleeping on your stomach too long. You are swaddling your hunger in loneliness. You are the weight of every divorce paper filed in Massachusetts. You are Greece's longing for her peace. You are finding yours in the light, dark suffocates your water balloon lungs. Your wiry, 6 foot frame is suffocated by 120 pounds. You are suffocated by me. I am filling my lungs with water, holding my head under what is blue and the waves crash over my spine like clockwork. I count to 3, I pass out and see your face in front of me, pale and gasping. I am hungover on Windex. I make bleach cocktails like mother makes her with anything she can find before she kisses her knuckles.
I don't wait for winter to come, I dig into the earth and find her, beg her to cover me in what will not melt. I beg for a grave as infinite as the fear that shakes me. I wish I could be alone, dear nature, why does responsibility choke me? Why does terror and trauma push its teeth into me like a wolf into sheep? Why can't I sleep without awaking? Why?
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
Still lanky dude with the long hair
Still can't tell you when, but I'm getting there.
Still the best poet you ever read.
Still don't think you'll read it till I'm dead.
Still gassing up past 3 AM
Still saying "Won't fall in love again."
Still waking up from the same dreams
Still getting air when I try and scream
Still wanna **** up a KMart
Still wanna skip to the next part
Still got a problem with some folks
Still tryna swallow and just choke
Still poor, still ***** and still tired
Still last resort if you need a ride
Still driving off of the Hairpin
Still hope the car lands in heaven
Still the one that loved you despite all of the pain
Still pulling the heart together, next is still the brain
Still the beating of it, stop it dead, leave it there to rot
Still wonder if you ever gave it a second thought
Still fighting toys in the playroom
Still saying "we're gonna move soon"
Still getting kicked out in August.
"Still this isn't breaking my promise."
Still smoking out in the same seats
Still hiding under the bedsheets
Still hit a home run in most cases
Still gotta touch all four bases
Still don't have the words for this feeling
Still tryna peel me off of the ceiling
Still chew my teeth instead of food
Still try to learn like I'm in school
Still hate the face in the mirror
Still my vision only gets clearer.
Still wanna ruin a Wal-Mart.
Still gonna race with the shopping carts.
Still scaling the shelving in home decor
Still can't go back, still banned from the store
Still gassing up past 4 AM
Still city streets, devoid of men
Still have to make wrong a few rights
Still, like a deer in headlights.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Last night I broke my heart
As I realized my road is meandering
So I decided to burn the highway
Alone
I reckon I once set out at dawn, when the sun was still
no where around
But you came with the daylight, or did the sun come chasing me, with you?
We rode through a pleasant morning
And through a sunny noon
Even through wild jungles
As the raindrops tainted our skin
Oh and when the clouds climaxed
How our thirsty lips sinned
You held me warm in your embrace
Through the coldest of nights
And as dawn knocked on our door again
We set out to burn the road, yet again
But it's been a while, I've been riding
I don't see you by my side
Or in my way, not even in the rear view
Maybe you'll meet me at the crossroads
I think, I hope...as I cross many roads
With your thoughts crossing my mind
Our paths...not yet, no
Oh but I'm closer to a turn now
It's a hairpin and I'm perhaps at 100kmph
If I see you there, will I be able to stop?
Will I skid or run you over, I know not...
Maybe I should just...stop!
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
You are used to being overloaded with work
That's what happens when you work in a startup
Especially a startup dealing in Recruitment
That too, not run-of-the-mill Recruitment
You specialise in niche roles
Thus, you need to invest a lot of time and effort
In order to pull off closures
Yes, a recruiter's life is never going to be easy
But Recruitment pales in comparison to Research
When you are working on a major research project
You are essentially taking part in an almost never-ending race
Against that elusive devil, Time
A race you can ill afford to lose
And the race track is far from straight
In fact, it is full of twists and turns
Some of them are even more dangerous
Than those hairpin bends you often encounter
While driving up the mountains
There are also numerous obstacles along the way
And to cap it all
There are no prizes for winning the race
On the other hand, if you lose
There will be a stiff penalty
In the form of losing the client, for ever
And what's worse
Is the fact that your credibility will take a massive beating
From which it will be quite difficult to recover
Life will never be the same again
So, you have to win, no matter what
Of course, you are used to working hard
Whether it be Recruitment or Research
So, you put your best foot forward
And work out of your skins
Putting off sleep as much as possible
Even when your body is protesting vociferously
Against this blatant abuse
To add insult to the injury
Your laptop shows you the middle finger
And your phone literally dies
Sending you into a brainfade
That would have put even Australian cricketer Steve Smith to shame
Luckily, your father's presence of mind saves the day
But your troubles are not over yet
The harder you work
The more confusing the project gets
It's like being trapped in a maze
Except that it's a thousand times worse
Because the maze is controlled from outside
As if it were a puppet
With your boss pulling the strings
Thus, the harder you try to find a way out
The more you get trapped inside
With every passing hour
Hope slowly drains out of you
Until you are forced to admit
That all you can do, is pray
And keep praying for all eternity
Hoping against hope
That Harry Potter and his friends will save the day
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 12:46 PM UTC
I love the two wheeled demons
they are in my soul waiting
to let fly
all my inhibitions
I have studied them
coveted them
but the courage to be free
defeats me
as I see the smiling face of death
on the first hairpin bend
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 5:55 PM UTC