"timesheets" poems
Don’t let the ********
Get their foot through the door
Say yes once, at the wrong time
And you’ve said yes ten thousand times
Soon they’ll be taking the hours
From your life
It will happen slowly
Creeping up on you
Like glacial tides
Like choosing a Pope
Like *** cancer
Until one day you are consumed
And struggling only pulls the mud
Further up your throat
They get you with all the necessities
Food, water, beer, clothes, and cigarettes
It takes POWER to say no
Not a lot of people have power
At least, they say no to the wrong things
They’ll say no to a mid-week ******
And yes to the slow death of 8-5
You see the injustice in their eyes
You see they are looking for an escape
You know, though, that they wont
The ******** move in
They claim they already own the place
That they never moved in at all
They’ll start rearranging
The furniture of your life
Orientating everything in their image
Don’t let them in
Don’t even open the door
They’ll take everything-
But it’s yours to keep
To keep so long as you
Love their cruelty
And allow them the last thread
Of consciousness
That leaves your body before sleep
It’s yours so long as you
Turn up on time
And stay late
Punch the clock
And throttle all human smell
It’s all yours
If you give yourself to them
They will use up your patience
And then start on your confidence
Until they have you
Decorating your iron bars
With raised, clenched fists
Declaring loyalty to those
Who would drop you without hesitation
Soon, they’ll **** that spark
That Blue Moon spark
The one you feel when the sky
Mimics colours of happy memories
The one you feel when
You wake with movement in your bones
The one you feel when
A balloon swells in your chest
Or when ecstasy fills your spine
How the wind at the back of a motorbike
Blows the cobwebs from your mind
They’ll take it all away
They’ll take it all
Compensate you with a paltry sum
For all of your hours
For all torn relationships
You have no time for
They’ll turn the vice
A little tighter each day
Until you turn crazy-
If you’re lucky
If not
You’ll be there
Spent on purified sugar
And a lack of motion
To your days
You’ll be there
A hollowed shell
Of violent potential
Lost
Lost in timesheets and long weekends
You’ll take pictures
Of days spent in the sun
So that in your luxury
Your geriatric, loose-skinned luxury
You can look back
On your small life and say
“Hey, I did everything expected of me”
And that will work
For no one
Don’t let the ********
Get their foot through the door
You have no POWER to resist
You won’t be you anymore
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
*wake up. school. work. school. wake up. school. work. school.
wake up. school. work. school. wake up. school. work. school.*
money is a means to buy things that make you happy when my grandma gave me twenty I said **** ya and she slapped me now Im workin for some currency and right now I am currently in debt a couple thousand and my parents keep on worrying but I know that I'm capable to escape this hole and make a boat and sail away, Ima stop punchin lines like JayLeno my paychecks and timesheets are worthless when I die, so Ima **** the system quit my job and live my life, ya **** the system
*wake up. school. work. school. wake up. school. work. school.
wake up. school. work. school. wake up. school. work. school.*
twenty years wasted? I don't think so, but did I do anything? I don't think so but this last week I thought deep like Alaskan fisherman watching their lines my rhymes and flow are cold like hos in the middle of palm springs, so frosty, no dirt on my shoulder, I wish somebody told me it hurts gettin older....
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Eyes fixed on the sun.
Shoulders back.
Back straight.
Chest out.
Solid breath.
Eyes fixed on the sun.
Eyes fixed on the sun.
Control is an illusion created by fear
Consumed by the restless, caught begging for sleep
Reflection is ruthless, a bottomless pit
A strange kind of way of breaking a kid
Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building and building and building away"
A body that wanders sets foot on new ground
So a mind that wanders is a mind that expands
A mind that expands is a mind that creates
Textures and shapes and colors and sounds
Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building and building and building away"
A mind that reflects is trapped in itself
Constantly spinning in a conical shape
A circular fashion, more narrow each day
Until it's caught, and sealed, and safely stored away
Meal plans, and caffeine, and bucket lists say
Treadmills, and timesheets, and calendars say
Paychecks, and billboards, and coffee mugs say:
"We're building, we're building. Keep building away"
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
It's not any great tragedy but the mundane,
the quotidian, which taxes me:
haircuts, shaving, the mowing of lawns;
leaf-raking, tooth-brushing, driving to work;
taking out the garbage, matching socks;
flossing, timesheets, getting gas for the car....
I long to be forced to flee at night,
all wits and energy required just to survive.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.
Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)
It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.
A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?
Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!
Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.
And then,
you wake up.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC