"workaholics" poems - Hello Poetry

Hit too hot hit too hot Now my throat burns Watching Workaholics I'd say Blake is my favorite His hair is cute I like his face Wild red hair creating umbrella space Flick the engraved Zippo the gift from wifey Blunt in the bowl smoking Spent ten on a three My other lover might sit with us soon Three in a room sharing hands Possibly kisses, massive attack Playing mezzanine we'll either touch Each others' skin or carry conversation As it turns out I've found peace with Either outcome or any other potentiality While it's pleasing to be receiving I'll be Lying if I tell you I don't appreciate the fine Details in simply spoken word between us

0

Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC

ZeroNine

Dead Queers: "A Cassette Scratches the Air Behind"

Hit too hot hit too hot Now my throat burns Watching Workaholics I'd say Blake is my favorite His hair is cute I like his face Wild red hair creating umbrella space Flick the engraved Zippo the gift from wifey Blunt in the bowl smoking Spent ten on a three My other lover might sit with us soon Three in a room sharing hands Possibly kisses, massive attack Playing mezzanine we'll either touch Each others' skin or carry conversation As it turns out I've found peace with Either outcome or any other potentiality While it's pleasing to be receiving I'll be Lying if I tell you I don't appreciate the fine Details in simply spoken word between us

19

I stare out of my window at the midnight street: Desperate lovers roam back alleys, hoping one day they’ll meet. Creeping shadows cast from dimming street lamps haunt the pathways; Yawning teens sit awake typing up long overdue essays; The dreams of the unsuccessful hang in the sky with the stars; Drunken mugs trip over their own feet outside the city bars A lone tree stands to attention in the middle of a frost bitten field Fear ridden walkers use recycling bins and garden walls as shields Workaholics typing themselves into oblivion Athletes run laps hoping to become an Olympian Stray cats and the heart wrenching cries of the homeless haunt the alleys Holiday goers walk by torchlight through hundred year old valleys Hopeful wannabes sing their shoulda coulda wouldas by the crack in the kerb Whilst I sit… staring at the wall thinking of a perfect verb

0

Jul 31, 2013

Jul 31, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC

teenage-writer

Darkness

I stare out of my window at the midnight street: Desperate lovers roam back alleys, hoping one day they’ll meet. Creeping shadows cast from dimming street lamps haunt the pathways; Yawning teens sit awake typing up long overdue essays; The dreams of the unsuccessful hang in the sky with the stars; Drunken mugs trip over their own feet outside the city bars A lone tree stands to attention in the middle of a frost bitten field Fear ridden walkers use recycling bins and garden walls as shields Workaholics typing themselves into oblivion Athletes run laps hoping to become an Olympian Stray cats and the heart wrenching cries of the homeless haunt the alleys Holiday goers walk by torchlight through hundred year old valleys Hopeful wannabes sing their shoulda coulda wouldas by the crack in the kerb Whilst I sit… staring at the wall thinking of a perfect verb

14

Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep. In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors. “I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said. I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (political science), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed. I envy those deserters, I pity those deserters, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know. Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal. Maybe there’s something wrong with us?

0

Mar 25, 2024

Mar 25, 2024 at 10:31 AM UTC

anaisvionet

all too soon

Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep. In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors. “I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said. I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (political science), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed. I envy those deserters, I pity those deserters, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know. Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal. Maybe there’s something wrong with us?

7

We chant our allegiance to it in shouted slogans, and fight ****** battles under its banner, ironically chained to it as we are to many other shadowy and ghostly things. But never has treasure so desired been so eagerly given away. Primitive man gave his to gods of sun, sky, and earth. We give ours to elected tyrants, weak and corrupt old men made powerful by our faith. To imaginary boundaries we lock ourselves inside, to roles we play, to straitjacket ideologies we writhe in, foaming at the mouth. There are slaves to their own bodies, or the bodies of others, and ****** for the envy of neighbors, or strangers. Collared submissives who bark like dogs and beg for the whip. Workaholics, alcoholics, pill poppers, shopping addicts, and spiritual junkies. In a thousand ways, we hand it over, between thumb and forefinger like a piece of chewing gum drained of its flavor. “Here...take this. I’m done with it.”

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Jan 14, 2019

Jan 14, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC

BRihlmann

Something We Never Wanted

We chant our allegiance to it in shouted slogans, and fight ****** battles under its banner, ironically chained to it as we are to many other shadowy and ghostly things. But never has treasure so desired been so eagerly given away. Primitive man gave his to gods of sun, sky, and earth. We give ours to elected tyrants, weak and corrupt old men made powerful by our faith. To imaginary boundaries we lock ourselves inside, to roles we play, to straitjacket ideologies we writhe in, foaming at the mouth. There are slaves to their own bodies, or the bodies of others, and ****** for the envy of neighbors, or strangers. Collared submissives who bark like dogs and beg for the whip. Workaholics, alcoholics, pill poppers, shopping addicts, and spiritual junkies. In a thousand ways, we hand it over, between thumb and forefinger like a piece of chewing gum drained of its flavor. “Here...take this. I’m done with it.”

45

When will pulse increase out of excitement rather than fear? regretful hearts signal a cry. Tears slip down onto our heals, feet no longer cling to soil. left the brain to rot and boil. have no grit have no might do as you're told don't question molds. oh how these days of symmetry lack any sort of tranquility. for now, our bodies mimic palpitations of so-called workaholics. actions contradicting wishful tendencies each obedient second portraying societies' needle. lackluster blood entering veins infecting what once kept organs aflow. in reach of hearts it may not pump but within our souls, we grasp control.

0

Nov 21, 2019

Nov 21, 2019 at 3:07 AM UTC

IvannaBass

What's the Goal?

When will pulse increase out of excitement rather than fear? regretful hearts signal a cry. Tears slip down onto our heals, feet no longer cling to soil. left the brain to rot and boil. have no grit have no might do as you're told don't question molds. oh how these days of symmetry lack any sort of tranquility. for now, our bodies mimic palpitations of so-called workaholics. actions contradicting wishful tendencies each obedient second portraying societies' needle. lackluster blood entering veins infecting what once kept organs aflow. in reach of hearts it may not pump but within our souls, we grasp control.

29