"underpaid" poems
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
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
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)
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
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.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
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?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
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
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
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?
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
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.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
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
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
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 –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
****** 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
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
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
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
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
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
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
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 6:58 AM UTC
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
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
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
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
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.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
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.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
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
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
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.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
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.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
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
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
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.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
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
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
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 piece of **** dad and a good husband.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC