Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Amy Perry Sep 2013
I'm underpaid.
If it takes me an hour's pay
To buy my lunch
I have a hunch
I'm underpaid.
Because I'm paid the
Minimum wage.
Why this isn't a cause of rage
Among politicians that their citizens
Are underpaid
On minimum wage
I'm afraid I can't say.
I can't rent my own place,
A problem I can easily trace
Back to my low pay
On the minimum wage.
I hope this is a stage
Because I honearly can't say
How I'd survive if I stay
Underpaid
On minimum wage.
While I can't pay my bills
Billionaires fly around country for thrills
Tax breaks, relax mate,
It's better than giving them to
The underpaid
On minimum wage.
To be able to pay the price
Of things I need would be nice,
But there's no room to play
Living day by day
Underpaid
On minimum wage.
My wages are a joke,
No way I can't be broke
Living this way.
I'd just like higher pay
For minimum wage.
My husband has an income or else I don't know how I'd survive.
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

Give me your tired
Your hungry your poor
But now-a-days
That don’t apply anymore
When it comes to
Illegal immigrants
Cos some contend
They’re here at our expense

Are they guest workers
Or just neo-slaves
Underpaid
So big business saves
And if you think
They’re gonna reinvest
Then I suggest
You take another guess

Is it reform
Or really amnesty
It’s a question
That hasn’t been answered (ya see)
And it’s hard to say
If it will ever be
Given its nature
And its history

Are they guest workers
Or just neo-slaves
Underpaid
So big business saves
And if you think
They’re gonna reinvest
Then I suggest
You take another guess

Now the debate
Is heating up
The law demands
We give ‘em up
But who’s gonna turn in
Their own family
I know I wouldn’t
But that’s just me

Are they guest workers
Or just neo-slaves
Underpaid
So big business saves
And if you think
They’re gonna reinvest
Then I suggest
You take another guess

I really don’t think
We have sumthin to fear
There’s already millions
Of immigrants here
Doin the jobs
No one else wants to do
They’re being exploited
And we are too

Now the debate
Is heating up
The law demands
We give ‘em up
But who’s gonna turn in
Their own family
I know I wouldn’t
But that’s just me

Are they guest workers
Or just neo-slaves
Underpaid
So big business saves
And if you think
They’re gonna reinvest
Then I suggest
You take another guess


(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
daniela Nov 2015
TO: icarus
i don’t feel anything when i look at you anymore
TO: icarus
but, sometimes, i miss your freckles like crazy
TO: icarus**
okay so maybe i lied
TO: icarus
i keep trying not to
i keep failing
TO: icarus
but i guess it’s just that
you are like no one i’ve met
TO: icarus
and it’s dumb to call you my first love
when you didn’t even love me back,
but… man, you were my first love
TO: icarus
i love(d) you so bad.
TO: icarus
and if i see you on the sidewalk,
i cross the street because i’m so afraid of brushing by you
and falling all over again
TO: icarus
i don’t think i’d be strong to crawl back out this time
TO: icarus
how dumb i was to think i’d be enough for icarus
TO: icarus
i loved icarus and he dragged me into the sun with him
TO: icarus
i loved icarus and he let me drown in the ocean,
grasping for the feathers of his wings
TO: icarus
you made me want to understand gods,
but i only knew about monsters
TO: icarus
god, you didn’t deserve the immortality
that i gave you
TO: icarus
you didn't deserve a single thing
TO: icarus
so if i’m ever the kind of poet they write biographies about
and whose work high schoolers are forced to analyze,
some underpaid english teacher
is going to have to talk about you
as the mysterious and slightly vilified figure
prevalent in my work
TO: icarus
you're in between every line
Michelle Brunet Mar 2019
How do you decide?
Decide what to do,
What the future holds for you?
I don’t understand, one goal,
One goal that somehow
Supersedes them all.

How do you choose?
When passion flows through you,
For not just one, nor two,
But many life paths, careers,
It all means something to you?

I feel lost, thinking of the future.
I’m floating by, trying to find,
Something that could spark
More than mere interest,
Something that could captivate,
Hypnotize me for long enough.

Because you see, I flit from one
Passion to the next, one minute
I am drawing, the next sewing,
The next it’s animals I love,
Or how about teaching children?

And I sit here empty, not sure
Which path to take, which goal
To make, to work towards,
Because right now, I’m in
The inbetween, no job,
Not in school, what do I do?

But the reality is, I’m trying to find
That one magic passion,
That somehow works with my
Disable body, since almost everything,
I find it all exhausting.
And my mind is spinning circles,
A dog chasing its tail.

Why can’t I do it all?
Why can’t I just enjoy life, enjoy
All of the things it brings,
And take my time, because I’m
So tired, of trying to figure it all out.
Tired of planning, I’ve never been
Too good at planning, when there’s
So many things occupying my mind,
So many things that I desire.

But even then, even then, if I could find
A goal to work towards, a dream job
For right now, well that takes work
And it takes time, because it
Turns out it’s all a ladder that
We all have to climb and being disabled,
Well I feel left behind, not sure
How to move forward when
I also have to go up, and going
Up has always been so draining.

I must work now, to somehow
Get somewhere I would rather be,
But what do you do when most jobs
Require me to be on my feet,
With my level of experience,
And education, limiting me?
It’s like I have to hurt myself
In order to hopefully some day,
Live a better life, I guess that’s why
So many say, ‘suffer now, and
You’ll get your reward later’

I tried university, tried college,
But you see, being disabled,
Has made them  difficult for me.
At least, in the ways that I was pursuing.
And now I’m stuck, trying to find my way,
How to get out of this rut, this mess,
All around me while being limited
By my own body, when I’m so used
To trying so hard to keep up
With the rest of them, charging
At how much money they can earn.

Money, it always comes back to money.
And money stresses me out,
Makes me more sick, gives me more
Pain that I would ever like to be in.
Well, apparently, money is
Supposed to be the solution.

Not so easy when the job market is crap,
I didn’t come from money, so I had to
Start off with nothing, and make my own way.
But where do you start, when
All your ‘now’ prospects seem
Rather lackluster and all you can do
Is prepare for a future.

Strange to think that we’re told to
Live each and every day like
It’s the last one we may ever live,
When we have to spend our beginnings
Stuck in preparing, deciding, and striving
For a future, so hard to make,
When all you started with was
A journal to write in.

I just want to live now,
I want to live everyday,
I want to spend more time
Cultivating all this passion inside
Of me, it’s bursting inside of me.

But there’s this rut, this anxiety,
This fear, of having to build a life,
No, a career. So that I can live
In the future, instead of now,
So that hopefully, we can get by,
Scrape by, by the skins of our teeth.

Tired of working crap jobs,
That I don’t really like, where we’re
Unappreciated, and paid to barely live.
Overworked, underpaid, I’m in so much pain.
My body, can’t stand in this pain,
But that’s all I can do is stand.
In pain, at a cash register,
Or making drinks, no consideration,
Of the struggle it is of being disabled.

Because we all have to able.
Able to stand, to push, to work
Your ***** off, until there’s nothing left,
You’ve given all you’ve got, and then
Some. Soul *******, career bent,
Work too hard, to fit in.
You got to be a workaholic to fit in.

Well I can’t keep up with that pace,
And I see it wearing people thin,
People that have more strength,
More drive than I ever did.
How are we supposed to live,
When you have to work to live,
And, in turn, live to work.
It’s extremely exhausting.

All of this jumbles inside me,
I can’t breathe, can’t decide,
How I’m supposed to live my life
When everything screams
On all sides, that I’m supposed to be
Running, supposed to be rushing,
And that all seems so wrong.

I just want to live a life that has meaning.
Something meaningful to me, that I can
Actually enjoy each moment as it passes
Us all by, I don’t want to rush life
Before it all ends, I’m so tired
Of trying to run in this ‘rat race’
It’s not a race, I need a slower pace.
I demand a slower place.
No more running, no more racing,
It’s time to live in the now,
No fear.
© Michelle Brunet 2019
Brock Kawana Apr 2014
Dear America,

Do not call my generation stupid.
We were the first group of kids to learn a computer.
Think about that society: A group of kids learned this intricate machine.* Yes, I'm talking about the O.G. Apples with the green type where you had to save with a floppy disk and if you put a magnet to the screen it went purple forever.
Yes those, same kids grew up and created everything you see before you now.
Everyday.

Do not call my generation ignorant.
In a short time span of years, as children, we learned about oral relations with interns and terrorist attacks.
From Clinton's impeachment to the World Trade Centers/Pentagon/Flight93 Somerset.
As children we learned; emphasis on the children part.
Our minds grew knowledgeable of a world at hand long before society gave us credit.
We grew up.

Do not call my generation lazy.
When we were sixteen and just received our license, gas rose to the highest it had ever been in our country's history.
We got underpaid and  disrespected jobs:
cleaning up bathrooms and serving your foot-longs.
The ability to travel on our own, it was our new found freedom.
Like the early travelers roaming new found lands:
Our wings were spread.

Do not call my generation weak.
We are the same group of people who entered college or the workforce with the worst economic fall since the Great Depression.
You ask, "What did it do to you?"
Buried us in more and more debt until it consumed our life.
But, we became enlightened.
We majestically thrived in the chaotic times by finding out who we are, what we are capable of and that life will take us our journeys before we even see it coming.
The light still shines even when you are buried the deepest.
It does not matter what you throw at us next.
We will rise and conquer. It's the world's hidden secret.
I'm proud to live in this time.
I hope you are too.
Never giving up is our morale.

Respectfully,

THE PERENNIAL MILLENNIALS.
cc: *(No HashTag Necessary)
1982-2000
Kyle Kulseth Jun 2014
Do you hate the way
     that our magnetized times
turn us all to metal shavings--
     push and pull--charged each
day to fill up negative space
with negative attraction?
Were you repulsed when polarities
                                          changed?

Or­ was that me?
     Flipping switches
                     switching sides
                                      siding
with pivot points showing, caught
with pants down?
"Be a man now!"
          While the female end
          of the port calls out,
          "Shipwreck! Shipwreck!
               All men down!"

Count me out at minus 4
     it leaves a balance: minus 3
At minus 10, our blood could freeze
and fall back earthward; blood red snow.
Caught on the tongue it tastes like pennies.
          Tastes just like
          the metal shavings
          we become
          in magnetized times.
               Polarized
and "Family Sized." Underpaid
Overfed. Neutralized America.

Greatest country in the ******* world.

                    Right?
Tanakar Feb 2011
Monday saw me smiling, beginning of the week.
New five days, new adventures.

Tuesday saw me grinning, second day of the week.
Long day yesterday, long day ahead.

Wednesday saw me smiling, **** day had arrived.
Two more days, weekend calling, hurrah!

Thursday saw me getting paid, great day to BE!
Money spent, bills underpaid.

Friday saw me hurting to get the day done
Weekend here, two days off.

But alas, after those two days it starts all over again
Jowlough Mar 2014
I want to draw the line,
and move on to greener fields;
I want to leave everything I have
and start new foundations to build.

I am sick of the system,
despite of the efforts that was seen;
being one of the soldiers
losing battles, I redeem.

I have nothing against you people
but my resource feels un-blessed,
equality is unexplainable
until you give up your kindness.

Bonds you wished to retain
are welcomed by abusive strains,
of guilt and forgiveness
in the back of your heart, blamed

untamed and rebellious
but still you manage to handle,
the fairness you wished for
your puke that you've gargled

until the last blame
becomes a memory of the past;
you wake up tomorrow
doing those same old task.
Carly Salzberg Apr 2011
We are manufactured landscapes,
constructed through naming nouns –
we celebrate difference.
We are compelled into being one or the other,
like a nail or a hammer.

We reference nature through motherhood,
voluptuous in her national pride narrative,
her lips red pucker supple metaphors like her fertile ground,
her belly always pregnant
ready to plant desire in discourse.

We forget her industrial miscarriages,
her toxic tar-sulfur consumption,
her global half-bred garbage in words left unsaid,
her ***** laundry in patriarchal hands.

We forget her midwives,
her toiling underpaid workers
who support generations of waste
who spit up truth in plastic mouthfuls,
who regurgitate material narratives
to celebrate flesh in mythic wholeness.

When will the nation, earth and world step from its subject of motherly pedestal and name its androgynous existence, its forgotten lifelines?
jack of spades Feb 2015
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
so Slam Poetry is my life.
Lady Narnia Jun 2016
I'm surprised we're having a picnic on the east wing!
Our company almost never gives us anything!
Underpaid with no benefits makes this picnic even better
To think I was going to give in my resignation letter

With so many hamburgers, hot dogs, and more,
It's a fast food restaurant galore!
A table packed full with yummies.
Today, a lot of beef will be in tummies.

People reaching for their plates
The caterers come out of their waits
One by one, they serve each voracious goer
For a pay that probably couldn't get any lower

Janice comes, with her broken polish and nails
And a scream a joy echos out like whales
She's so drunk, oh my god haha she's so wired
It's the unpaid overtime or another threat of being fired

Poor thing... we finish our girl talk
and problems on my mind, I begin to walk
Feeling my appetite begin to poke me,
I bite into my hamburger with resounding glee

Nipping the bread, it's fluff presses against my lips
I close my eyes, as my senses go in dips
The precious aroma of divine baked bread
As my tongue and bun are set to wed.

Each bud met with delicious waters of steak
The ketchup creating a dreamy, saucy lake
Scrumptious, delicious
Incredible, nutritious...?

It doesn't matter, I've met my goal
And the taste, goodness it makes my mind roll
Forgetting everything while I finish the rest
Golly, this food is the best
Aveline Mitchell May 2015
Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.

Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.

Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.
Zara Wolfe May 2014
There's not enough time a day
to be the girl I am.
Seeking a second pay to support her ravenous game.
She requires two feeding times a day:
A Bottle of Cyanide to soothe those demons cold.
A Bottle of Virginity to restore her veins of purity.
Sam Temple Jun 2014
perfunctory actions
zombie habits
sheep normalcy
blindly following the cud chewers
lemmings fall to their deaths
slowly
genetically engineered crops
dusted with pharmaceutical poison
laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides
fed to the babies of the poor –
wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in
as the impoverished masses rot
for viewing pleasure
leisurely strolling across manicured lawns
those in power scoff at the growing spectacle
unaware that the cake is stale
and the masses smell blood –
hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates
mix those with interest credit
season it with mortgage fees
and serve it on wall street
place mats
taking stock of stock market gains
gamblers do double gainers off high rises
adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class
under classed –
underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic
as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling
both symbolizing the slow decline of
the American dream
screaming into the sewer
fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris
loss of the inner shine
glowing reflection of living organisms
fading as the day
slips into the blue-black –
night falls on a nation of imbeciles
brain dead patients
broken by depression and weight-loss scams
hearts crying out for care
personal and compassionate
instead are met with sterile robotics
and sanitary “C” students dressed in white
fearful of lawsuits
and spiders
they prescribe to symptoms
without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1
is a human being, just like them
also living in fear
of the same establishment –
Marley ONeill Mar 2010
****** Colombiana
Dressed in red
Her name was Ana
Leaned in close
She named her price
Expensive taste
Aim to entice
Desperado,  El Caballero
Like Cisco Kid
The hall was narrow
Was on her knees
Always prayed
In his pocket
Underpaid
En Colombia la vida loca
Slowly reached
Her skin like mocha
A forty-five
To Ana’s head
Mucho dinero
****** dead
Shawn Awagu Dec 2019
The restaurant is quiet, relatively, the one that
Maya told you about yesterday at lunch
She and her boyfriend mentioned “Three’s Company”—
No not the show—
And how we should go out there sometime
“Yeah, maybe we should”
You said because you don’t know how to say no

The lighting is warm, like an Olive Garden
But there’s a draft on your neck and your hands are cold because there is no one standing next to you
You wish you were there instead; even though this place looks nice, you don’t know if it actually is
And you start to feel the vibrations

Before you psych out and walk out, you sit down at a table and wait for an underpaid waitress—
There she is—
“Hello, my name is Elif and welcome to Three’s Company. What would you like to order?”
You spot her nametag—
“Excuse me, would you happen to be of Turkish descent?”
Her eyes light up—
“Wow, how’d you know that? Everyone just thinks I’m American.”
Remember, she has to be nice—
“I like exploring languages cultures. I find it fascinating that we’re all the same, yet so radically different in our own way.” This doesn't actually make sense, but it sounds interesting.
Her eyebrows dance. Cute—
“Well Mr. Philosopher, what can our establishment provide for you today?”
Quick, glance at the board—
“American Classic. No pickles”
“Coming right up!”

Her pen damages the atmosphere for a few moments, and then she’s gone
You almost feel like you’re human until you remember she’s underpaid to smile and small talk
And your hands start shaking again; look I’m sorry kid
I like you
But you’re not much company
Which face will I wear today
    The face I wear at work
          Cheerful member of the staff
          Underpaid - unappreciated
           Tiny office with no window
           Paperwork nobody looks at
           Rules just for the sake of rules

Which face will I wear today
      The face I wear at home
            Always tired, depressed, besieged
            by a thousand minor ailments
            All the things I'd like to do
             crowded out by other things
             I have to do that are no fun.
      
Which face will I wear today
      The face that sports a poet's cap
            Gel filled quill pen clutched in hand
            Trying every format I can learn
            Gleaning from the published experts
            Writing happy after years of sad
            Finding sunshine in the shadows that I live in

Which face will I wear today
      The face above the helping hands
            that reach for places to be used
            That garner joy from mucking in
            to smooth the path for others
            Seldom thanked - often refused
            Bucket goal - to save a life.

Which face will I wear today
      The face that looks back from the mirror
            Mapping all the tracks of age
            Searching for the sparkle in the eyes
            that joined hands with my youthful looks
            and did a conga-line away

Which face will I wear today
      Picasso portrait of them all
            Ill and hale - strong and weak - sad and glad
            When seen together in the mirror
            it's a face I do not know
            and someone I don't care to meet

So check the clock and choose a face
    Paste it on and smooth it out
        Comb hair over all the edges
             **** the light and close the door
                 And take this face out for a walk
                       See if anybody says hello
                                           ljm
I guess we all have a lot of different faces/personas.  These are some of mine.
Megan Hundley May 2012
In the corner next to the underpaid electricity
where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers
admitting each bite taste better than the original,
hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware
but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match
during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses
the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake
as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed
napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter
truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about
a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't
stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got
unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple
to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry
to taste the sweetness of the moment
later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a
glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping,
shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating
the impossibility of believing any of it
Emanuel Martinez Jan 2011
Don't criticize, don't criticize that man
For enjoying something you deem a waste of time

Let him have something for himself

In our petty little lives
There is nothing keeping us going

Taking care of a wife and children
That is the only duty he is obliged to

Mother and wife must give up her life
Once that child is born
There is no greater purpose than for her to see that child through

The only thing giving them hope
Is the love hanging by a thread
And when there is no faith hope tends to snap

Don't criticize, don't criticize them
For seeming different than you

Let them have something for themselves
If it means keeping them alive

Working double shifts,
Overworked and underpaid
Her hands are always in pain

And you dare snare at her
Because she doesn't dress as well as you

Never home and undernourished
He is only trying to provide for his home
By being at work day and night
Feeding himself is only secondary to the hunger of his child

Don't criticize, don't criticize me
For being wrong, I will fall down to my knees

Let me have something for myself
If it means keeping me alive
January 2011
Azimah Azmi Mar 2014
How diamonds embedded in fine jewellery, are stained by the blood of malnourished labourers often forgotten by the first world democracy - Boasting mountainous elaborate skyscrapers, marked by the sweat and tears of underpaid construction workers struggling with debts and taxes. How a baby boy or girl is born, not without a mother’s pain - much greater than having major muscles torn. How an old married couple withers away side by side, masking decades of struggles and sacrifice.

All things beautiful were made from chaos.



**-AA
March 19, 2013. 0222hrs
Nik Bland Aug 2013
To and fro as the saying goes
As the afros chase rainbows in search of gold
And the money's ****** dry, 'till the rich only supply
Ways to the make the poor poorer & keep the crackheads high
Then we overdose on sighs that all come at once
The teachers so underpaid that we're soon led by the dunce
And the market's like the breakers of the sea, it just crashes
The 99 sinking in ships while the one percent dashes
We find the dream of the US tainted green
Or to put it correctly, it has been tainted greed
With the day to day in ways that leads to the end
With a knife in your back while they pat it like your friend
So reliance on defiance is the key so defy
All the brainwash and the violence, raise you hands to the sky
And live
If I could write my thoughts
You may not quite understand
For the words we are stapled with
Seem ridiculously bland

Music flows like colours to beat
Hypnotising my soul, sparking my senses
Controlling my body I'll jump to my feet
Unimportance of visuals like seeing through lenses

If emotionally moved why not be 'fantabulous'
Eyes closed I see clearer and all is so peachy
Bisto relates to Sunday but life is better gravy
Grey Monday's depress but not 'Grey..You get me?

Just separate your instincts of colours and such
Words are just letters You'll see in a bit
Brains installed with viral fake mush
Some never stray from the path of life's Pit

So blasphemy like '*******, **** and ****
Bad letters because swearing is ...wrong?
The four letter 'C' word the worst though admit
Cos **** is just letters made worse for too long

Sue is my name all over the world
Yet Mum can be Mom, Dad, Pa, Pere
If taught **** for Mum wisdom are not pearls
Red is not hot blue is not cold transparent unclear

So simply my mind see's what's gone so wrong
To un -train what's been taught like losing a limb
People are 'Crazy' to not follow and conform!
Don't get the page yet? read on its no sin

Fantabulously individually Humans
My DNA matches no others so why  march to the tip TOP beat
How beautiful we are 'ALL' Races of humans, Us
The recent power crazed gave racism a ******

****, Racism, diets, Religion
War, Rich, Poor, just made up words
Humans empathetic risers to imagine
No hate, selfishness, Malice in Humans that's Absurd!

Do we find Racial abuse amongst Dogs, Cats and such
So many species but a ***** is a ***** regardless of colour
Rabbits in the wild don't live in a hutch
Straying the point lets try to mull over

From born colour coded, numbered and named
Associated colours, Pink Girls, Blue Boys
Lemon and white if scans are waylaid
Colours are just preferences or visual noise

Taught to be the best you can be
Strive to the top, the higher, the best
Already are wedging the You and the Me
Hang on..Oh look.. I come from the 'West'

How hard to be taught to embrace our uniqueness
Respect, Love and cherish the short time we're here
Selflessly love, change this bare rotten bleakness
Humanity release this dark You enslave

No rich or poor just balanced and happy
Heinz not for me still love store brand
Caviare Hallooga Ballooga, Whatever, Really?
If not jisting my drift now... You're not of this land!?...


All I'm saying is we are all unique so live life to the full, embrace love and happiness, help others where you can, be selfless, respect costs nothing as does a smile, no need for fad dieting, embrace your unique self, let's strive to make Humans be the best we can be but embrace the journey together, life is not a competition or a race, beauty can not be visualised or bought, true beauty 'can' be the ugly ducling surrounded by selfish nasty swans.  Feel the love in all Humans globally.  The one's who lead us at the tippedy top have been hypnotised by some othre in-humane greedy, selfish sub species, who I shall name the darkness and unknown fear we only feel, because remember to visualise is irrelevant to our existence , it's through our feelings, fears and thoughts they attack first, causing panic amongst the trustworthy of our so called Governments.  If they all wanted the best for us then by al means pull together as ONE Government, but to diminish the value of money is just a way of controlling us, keeping the rich rich and richer and making the poor the lowest, ,maybe now homeless **** in society we all feel uncomfortable around?  If all houses cost the same, all wages paid the same rate and no unnecessary taxes to park a vehicle, drive the vehicle, toll costs when in the same country and no tax on wages...What they spending that **** on? We already pay tax on the area we live, yes roadworks, police, fire crews, New Homes even, street improvements have to be funded by tax to pay wages... fair enough.  No taxing us on our hard worked, underpaid jobs that we lose blood sweat and tears over and lets face it 3/4 of that goes back into the government with tv licence, overpriced food, tobacco, extortionate fuel companies conning you out ya money with standing charges and charging you more kw for the £ on the ever gracious £5-8 emergency they put on pre payment machines.  Then If your lucky enough to have worked and lived an average life you can buy your own house which you pay of untill your pension years.... god forbid you need residential care if u lose your mind or you can kiss your financial future for your kids cos that care don't come under the good old NHS.... and is soooooo over priced and understaffed by mostly aliens of society that the government take the house and money to pay for their care???? ******* rediculous.  And of course when U die you have to pay a % of the value of that house to the government.....for?? Yea what the **** for? My house? Go **** yourself!...The free bus pass don't cut it, the discount priced fish and chips DON'T cut it!!

You know the thing that grates me the most? TV Advertisements, e.g Washing powder ads.... 10 years ago it removed 'all' stains and made whites whiter than white... now 10 years on and Fantabulously new and improved with colour protection and stain, bomb, bullet proof...Yes you have guessed it, makes whites 'even' whiter! ha.. white is white it don't get whiter.....all scams for money....stick a trusted celebrity in the ad....and you could sell chocolate teapots to the masses...

My Motto..... Eat well, live life, embrace our imperfections cos perfection is unreachable, unachievable and installed into us to get more money, more power, more **** knows?  Don't be ruled by the soldiers and the puppets of society, believe in what you like and respect that others may not always agree with you but we are entitled to our opinion, not everyone is going to agree, that's what makes us different, never seen a war starting over country A likes coffee Country B likes Tea....lets go to war to battle it out....Make war against the law... would solve asylum seekers, ad that god dam racism word, bring back golly Wogs and baa baa black sheep...ridiculous...my childhood was when thatcher was in reign.... oh how the man 'o' species let 1 woman come into power and claim she ****** it..... anyway straying again...Wake up People Freedom is lost,  lets not let them take our souls too!!
JA Doetsch Jan 2012
There was a time that I found my life
to be boring
inane
bourgeois
some...other fancy sounding word
but that was before I discovered how amazing
life could truly be. That was before I discovered
InsaniFree. I bought it over the phone
for $14.83 and let me tell you

I couldn't be happier now.

You just take a teaspoon a day, and your
annoying
    controlling
        bothersome
sanity just slips away,never to be seen again.
Why within the first day I had quit my job of 25 years.
Just up and quit!
I walked into my boss's office and told him I was done.
Done being underpaid and overworked.

Well...
I might have actually just ran in covered in toner
with my pants tied around my head and tried
to jump through the window only to find it
was reinforced glass...
but it's practically the same thing.

Anyway...

I have a new job now as a "Rodent anxiety theorist".
It's so exhilarating and I've never felt more fulfilled
as a member of the work force. I spend my days
carefully observing the small critters at the park
to see what makes them tick.

Quite literally the best job ever.

Well...
I guess it technically isn't a "job", as I don't really get paid.
I basically run around throwing acorns at squirrels, then write
down what they do on napkins. They generally run away,
but I think they're starting to mobilize. I've got my eye on them.

Isn't it amazing what you can do when you don't let your
stupid
   oppressive
       restrictive
sanity stop you from doing the things you want?


Just a week ago I left my wife of 12 years. I told her
I couldn't stand her unrealistic expectations anymore.
"Dear, you need to spend more time with your son"
"Dear, we don't talk enough"
"Dear, take out the trash"
"Dear, please stop cutting locks of my hair while I'm sleeping"

Women, am I right?

I'm so much happier now. I'm marrying my dream girl next month.
Literally.
As in she's a girl that only exists in my dreams.
The paperwork will be tricky, but I think I can manage.


Now that my goodfornothing sanity is out of the way,
I can focus on lifelong dreams like
traveling the world
learning a new language
or just running through a mall and seeing how many people
I can squirt with ketchup before security tackles me.
I could never do these things before.

Well...
I guess technically I can't do them "now"
since I'm writing this from my padded cell,
but I know it's only a matter of time
before my new wife gets here with the paperwork.

She's great.

I hope she hurries though...I think I saw a squirrel.

Wait for laughter.
This is an "Adopted Metaphor", I didn't realize that these didn't post to your profile so I copied it over.
dania Jul 2013
from the very first glimpse of world that greets you every sunday,
                                            tuesday
or perhaps thursday morning
the thought of an ordinary day will not dawn upon you
for every day, to you, will be as good as your first
and as bad as your last
life is your dress rehearsal
and its creatures are your cast

seated at the breakfast table
alone
   with alphabet cereal
swirling in milk
avidly spelling out the names
of all the galaxies
    and daydreaming
of sleeping under the stars

daytime means schooltime
which is synonymous with
underpaid teachers
    and high-pitched gossip
and boys with peach fuzz
who never bothered remembering your name.

the cafeteria is a habitat
which houses many
different species
of human
including the undercover poet
scribbling on a grease-stained
napkin :
the ballad of a sad child.

upon a steady return
to the undercover's residence
three things occur:
      his fountain pen is quenched
          his tears dried
and of course, a bitter realization
that his day had been most banal.

so once again the poet sets off

footsteps patting against textured carpet
   your shaky palms
grabbing layers of soft duvet
  dragging it across the empty floor
through the hallways
  and out the front door

under the stars
   you lay and weep:  safe forever
and fully submerged in the calm of the night

forever is not a lifetime
it seems
but the time it takes
for the sun to win over the moon
in a fight
june 17 2013
Michael Ryan May 2016
Understanding
is something
that comes from
the daunting
reminder
that we are all the same

and it's not happiness
but the disheveled,
underpaid,
antagonizing
waiter
who launders around tables.

Being treated poorly
by people
that can't even
take the hands of time
to read the name
of a person that serves them life

the succulent roasted pork
with a side salad
or a bowl of broccoli soup
have more in common with
our suffering waiter
than the illiterate people.
What's their name?
Mike Hauser May 2016
More often than not
I've had enough of love
Underpaid and over spent
Giving out on giving in

Like a clock with no hands
A nail twice over bent
Tattered and torn
Useless and worn

Like a car with no brakes
Too late for mistakes
No room to breathe  
Through the wants and needs

Like building on a fault line
An eradicate moth in flight
Shaky at best
No place to rest

With lost hope in hand
All that is left
Underpaid  and over spent
Giving out on giving in
Keenan Felder Dec 2011
Hands off at sun
Hands on in candlelight
Thoughts in the sheets as bright at cold winter nights
Seductive squeals seep from your pores
Imposing emphasis on the ykk below my buckle
Staring at each other like under worked underpaid ******
Chasing after each other like the bull and matador
Anticipating love like christmas morning
Wanting you at dusks yawning
Craving you at Noons awakening
Needing you by nights naptime
All before life calls me and i cant have you
Until lost calls on love
susan Oct 2014
get away from me all you fools
store owners
underpaid store clerks
delivery people
disgruntled factory workers
bosses
know it alls
child molesting priests
rabbis
loud mouthed reverends
strippers
track armed hookers
pimps
johns who's wife won't give it up
teachers
shady lawyers
pill poppin' doctors
nurses
kids with colds
old people with dementia
***** dogs
feral cats
evil grandmas
perverted grandpas
street sweepers
***** garbage men
slick bartenders
waitresses
drunk people
people high on life
dope heads
meat heads
sober judges
all of you
go to hell in a handbasket
and let me live my life
in peace.
‘I am pure, forever now,’
The words scratched on a skull,
That I dug up one morning
In a garden, back in Hull.
I didn’t know just who it was
Or where the skull had been,
The skull itself the only one
That knew what it had seen.

There were no other bones, they were
All missing, neck to toe,
Perhaps they’d gone on walkabout
And said, ‘We’ll let you know!’
The skull was left to rest in peace
Beneath a flower bed,
Where jonquils wavered in the breeze
Above this lonely head.

The bed was bound by sleepers
That were there before the time
My grandparents had owned the house -
Who covered up this crime?
They must have known, had surely known
Whose head it was, deceased,
Before they laid that garden bed
Hacked off the head, at least!

For someone scraped those five short words
Bit deep into the bone,
Had used the knife that cut its throat?
Or merely, some sharp stone.
I held the skull beneath the tap
To wash away the dirt,
The empty sockets stared at me
Relentless, in their hurt.

Was this a male or female skull?
I found it hard to say,
The teeth were young and pearly white
I called it ‘she’ that day,
Old Jeb, the gardener came round
And saw, and burst in tears,
‘I haven’t seen that pretty smile
In more than fifty years!’

‘Her name was Clementine,’ he said,
‘A little pantry maid,
Back in the days of service when
We all were underpaid,
When I was just a lad myself
And new into the fold,
Your crusty great grandfather ruled,
Old Ebenezer Gold!’

‘We weren’t allowed to mix back then,
We slept on different floors,
He took a special interest in
The womenfolk, indoors.
He’d stalk around at midnight, checking
Under every bed,
Would threaten us with vengeance from
The Lord above, he said.’

‘I’d meet with Clementine outside,
We’d use the potting shed,
She’d tease and tempt me daily, dare me
Sneak into her bed,
Then one day she came crying, but
She wouldn’t tell me why,
Just said that Ebenezer was
A sneak, a ***** spy!’

‘I thought she must have got the sack,
She simply disappeared,
And nobody would mention her
Their lips were sealed, I fear.
He really had a hold on us
He oversaw the plots,
And said I had to seed that bed
With blue Forget-Me-Nots.’

He died near forty years ago
So Jeb and I agreed,
There wasn’t any point to raise
A scandal, without need,
I told him to put back the skull,
He cried, and kissed it lots;
Pulled out the jonquils, planted seeds
Of blue Forget-Me-Nots!

David Lewis Paget
Werner Scheepers Nov 2016
Slowly losing sight on the important things in life
Stuck on screens, different scenes
The endless pursuit of happiness
Just another day wasted by…

Living in an outside jail
Losing track of the beauty made
Seeing the world through postcard mail
Overworked,underpaid

Taking the same road
To the same place
For days on end…
Caged,in the same routine

Living in an outside jail
Losing track of the beauty made
Seeing the world through postcard mail
Overworked,underpaid

Just keep smiling
There will always be another sunset on the horizon
Just keep tryin'
One day we'll be sitting,looking out on the ocean...
Andrew Parker Jan 2014
Professional Poem
1/14/2013

The shelves are full of papers.
My e-mail folder full.
Workload maxed capacity.
But still got more to do.

Each day the office seems to shrink.
Buried under business.

But each day my experience grows.
And with it comes persistence.

My confidence has gone out the roof.
As I dress up in tie and suit.

I wear my watch.
Look my best.
Never sloppy.
Slim-fit vest.

So here is my confessional.
The life of a new professional.

I kind of like the grueling hours.
and even the underpaid wages.

Because the more I learn,
The less I yearn.
For this happiness to become contagious.
Professional will save us,
from our lackluster lives.
Duke Thompson Oct 2015
Drink Mead
Red like blood
My forefathers
Or so they told me

No warrior here
Valhalla decries me
Hiding in shadows
Would you call me Loki?

Too tired for these metaphors
Young man
Little plans of mice and

Worst laid, underpaid survivor
Going in tomorrow
Renewed ansgt amongst the fire
Chris Feb 2014
Mom
You sit here telling me I am to emotional
You sit here telling me I give you shame
You sit here telling me I am nothing
You sit here telling me about your awful life
You sit here telling me to stop playing the victim
You sit here telling me you were a straight A student
You sit here telling me that this house is all you have left
You sit here telling me that I am going to end up like my father
A lier, theif, crook, and a bad husband

However you, mom are were I get my emotions from
However you, mom bring shame to the name
However you, mom aren't even important to me
However you, mom have made your own mistakes
However you, mom cry about how you're always the victim
However you, mom dropped college and is now struggling
However you, mom don't even realize that once had me
However you, mom make me choose him over you

You mom bring tears to my eyes
You mom are overprotective and crazy
You mom yell at me for doing nothing
       When you sit here yelling at me that I am nothing
You mom could have changed your life forever with me
You mom are the victim of yourself
You mom are underpaid and dropped out of college
        Look at where those all important grades got you
You mom were once the color of my life
         And now you are out of my crayon box
You mom took me away from you, when you chose a house over me
You mom are the sole reason that I want to be my father

I would rather be a bad husband and a good father
Then be a ******* dad and a good husband.
Your not even a good wife either you don't deserve the name mom, Debbie.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Coins jingling in the pocket
Paper money makes no sound.
The coins are pennies and a dime
That I just found on the ground.
Some days my nest-egg can
Be counted as just a few cents.
I have grown used to living without
Much of a sense of recompense.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Nothing like any kind of income
About which I can easily brag.
No shiny stuff, never any bling.
No limo, no Rolex, no swag.
Though I did once dream of
Living in a ritzy sprawling place,
That kind of daydreaming is
For someone who won the race.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

It’s often called The Rat Race
But I have a problem with that.
I saw a whole lot of fat cats
But I never saw even one rat.
I think it’s better to call them
What they actually happen to be.
They’re hard workers, underpaid.
They’re the working class, they’re me.

— The End —