"unnourished" poems
Once careers that furnished
A new terminology of unnourished
Years past there was longevity in how long you stayed on a job
Yet the reverse of jobs created no mob
Short term you might as well be a temp
The idea of long term is out the door it went
A recommendation passed from a Former President
The theory became an idea for U.S. Companies being evident
Long term had finally become the worse enemy
It was put asleep
Then filed away for sometime to keep
The new career is short term
It means stay 3 or 6 months then move along
Companies no longer want you to be employed long
But there is a catch
The applicant becomes the test run
Playing with someone’s career isn’t fun
The employer’s voice, “We want to see if you will work out”
Now you see what I am talking about
Imagine living career wise day by day
There is not much you can really say
However salaries have dropped dramatically
You live based on living scientifically
Created a method that will help you survive
Regardless of circumstance you have the power to continue to strive
Yes people need a job
However at what extend to one’s expiration
A career revival change
New policies need to be arranged
Terms with their own name
No time for the blame game
A new wave of short term to remain
Create your own long term being the aim.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
We are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
Missing keys,
Oh!
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded books.
The ones "watching every move we make",
The ones not there when we take the wrong step.
Which day will I be allowed to sleep in,
through sun rise and sunset...
through night and day...
Laying forever in my cold bed.
Jagged stars cutting my bleeding brain,
mistaking them for a stairway to heaven.
The soft cumulus haven was too unearthly,
hidden from all to see...
Away from dry earth and mortal bodies.
We turn to man-made bliss; contained in inch-long plastic bubbles,
To fill the great gap between reality and fantasy.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
Wisdom has always ruled the cosmos.
No sword is sharper than wisdom.
Good intentions cannot simply come forward,
Or progress sideways,
But must be placed with correct x,y, & z coordinates.
Not only that, but it must be met with a receptive person
for wisdom's fruit is sincerity, kindness, and tact.
What comes forward otherwise is met by fools.
All undertakings depend not on "wise-dumb" but wisdom.
How many a silence left a seed unnourished and how much has speaking killed the seed.
How many an act has made me a fool.
How many an act has made me a child of God.
How few an act has made me seem wise beyond my years.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 1:27 AM UTC
Vases with flowers on countertops-
No good to those who wish for eternity,
or easy appreciation.
There is pruning, watering, replacement.
There are dead petals strewn among the granite,
drooping dying faces bending into gravity.
Beauty lasted only for a second and,
all that was left behind were holes in the ground.
Those roses left for dead.
Unnourished for but a moment.
Uncherished from muddled perception.
Like all the plastic primrose-
And artificial daises held up to mirrors,
Empty when it needed light.
It was not the lesser hand that took it,
and promised it forever,
but lack of understanding,
the message caught in friction.
Empty when it needed light.
Clipped from its roots before it had a chance to sing.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC