"workload" poems
HE GIVES THE BEST HUGS
"you like long hugs don't you"
he knows i do
so he envelopes me in his warmth
and squeezes me till i feel giddy like a little girl
and sometimes
he even rests his chin on my head
and i wonder if he is memorizing what my shampoo smells like
and it's for this exact moment that i push through my workload each day and
it's for this exact moment that i walk through the rain each night
his evening smile is tattoed in my mind so i can dream peacefully
and he never fails to follow up with a simple love you snap
HE GIVES THE BEST GOODNIGHTS
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keep the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
How many times can I check facebook, check facebook check facebook?
Glance, browse stalk, stalk harder.
How many times can I watch a show on my computer?
Watched, finished, next episode next episode next episode-caught up
How many times can I get distracted, get distracted check emails—no new messages
Entertain me, distract me, disconnect
I want to be turned on standby, autopilot, you can think for me
Keeps the walls of paper from burying me, suffocating me
Intellectually flat-line, a mental goodbye
Lose consciousness, fake my awake
Get lost, then found then actually find my way back to my workload
Attempt the task that terrifies
Look it in the eye,
Unafraid eager and tackle it down to the ground
One subject two three,
But the pile it looms over me, consumes me
I bit off more than I can chew
Teeth that don’t release, don’t retract
All I think of is how I should act
Attack, straight on? That’s the best bet
Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting down in fret
The stakes are just too high to try
A failed attempt changes impressions
Self-Conceptions
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
The best poems are all about
loss and pain and suffering.
It feels more natural to write a poem
about a long lost memory,
Or a love that never worked.
Poets aren't allowed to be happy.
They’d run out of material to write about.
The words
content and happy
in the same sentence as the word
I'm,
feels like your tongue
never sitting right in your mouth,
like teeth getting in the way
when making out
like an itchy throat,
not going away even after coughing a fit.
The phrases
You are and my boyfriend
can't be a real sentence
like how
unicorns and fairytales
don't exist.
They just feel like
two jigsaw pieces
from different parts of the puzzle
forced to sit beside each other.
The word love
just doesn’t resonate
with the beat of my heart.
Maybe because
my heart stopped beating
a long time ago
and my brain had to carry the workload
so I think twice as much as I should
synonyms?
I overthink.
I may be the only poet
who doesn’t want to be happy;
a ********* clinging to heartbreak,
and loss and pain and suffering.
because it’s easier to let heartbreak
wrap myself in its familiar arms
than to experience an adventure
with happiness wrapped in mine.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC
When I discovered I had cancer,
I was told that I would learn a lot
About Life and Death and Time,
But I never thought that I would
Discover what it means
To be intimate
With strangers,
Or anyone, for that matter.
When my insides were cut open like a game of operation,
I told myself:
Be detached.
When visitors came,
We talked about the weather.
When I arrived home, I spent my time
Trying to forget
The experience
Of impermanence
And shared emotions
That I couldn't even grapple with
Myself.
When the person I loved
Left me
I flinched
And then sunk back into an abyss of
Emotionless functioning,
Cutting myself further and further
Off from my narrative
Of pain.
When it was time to go back to school,
I flinched
And signed up for a workload
Heavy enough
To push out the fading reality
Of my condition.
It wasn't until I was sitting on the steps
Outside of a bar that was slowly beginning
To empty out,
As intoxicated shadows gained substance and lit cigarettes against the brick wall.
I sunk down next to friend I had recently met-
My big t shirt inched up above my abdomen
And the lower jagged mark of my scar
Peeked out-
I didn't choose to tell him my story
Until he asked me about the obvious
Stale incison mark that had a presence
Of its own.
Piece by piece, it peeled itself from off my stomach
And liquified into a sequence of events
And feelings
That poured from me
Like a stream of bubbling bath water
Overflowing from the rim
Of a porcelain tub.
That's when I realized that there is something shared and intimate about scars:
Marred reminders of the flesh
That speak to our upmost human
Encounters with our own mortality.
An indecipherable label of sorts:
An unsigned invitation into the taboo.
In a moment of unintentional word *****
At 2am to a stranger,
I regained my intimacy with myself
And my journey.
I learned that while Life and Death and Time
Will always plague our existence,
They distance us from the human experience that is
To feel:
To feel everything in this God forsaken world.
To feel angry at people for leaving when they should have stayed.
To feel compassion at the same time.
To feel intimacy with others.
To feel intimacy with yourself.
To feel love.
To feel pain.
To feel the cold creases in the wooden floor as you make your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
To feel alone.
To feel surrounded.
To feel the trembling echoes of the past and be able to grab its elusive coattails and shake away the dusty remnants of time and shout that you are present.
To feel nothing.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in
Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in
Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client
Blackboard
Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks
Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod
Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care
Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner
Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven
The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to
The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready
TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone
Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all
Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
I had a seventh grader tell me, when I was in 5th grade, that things go downhill after 5th grade - that life doesn’t get better, it just gets more complicated. I’ve had years to mull that over and I have to say that in some ways his testimony was on beat.
As we start the second half of sophomore fall semester, I think I’ve reached stability and I’m accustomed to this year’s schedule and workload. I haven’t surveyed whether I’m faster or slower in this (see below), but now I know all the tricks - where to eat, which paths to take and what to carry. I have a firm rhythm that’s consistent and insistent.
“I’m finally on my schedule.” I commented to Sunny yesterday morning as we collided in our dash to get our shoes on.
She looked at me in confusion “You know we’re on week 8 out of 15, Ya?”
I was shocked, “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I admitted as we stepped out.
It’s midnight and we’re going (Peter, Lisa, Sophie and I) to “My **** tonight (the dorm basement snack-bar). I took two seconds to splash my face with water and twist-back my hair. “How do I look?” I asked Peter.
“You’re attractive.. enough,” he said, “..I mean you fall within a bell curve.”
“You're almost 40,” I say, in the face of his non-complement.
“I’m 26,” Peter said, “You know it, and I have proof. You DO have some good points though,” he granted, while trying to drape his great, hairy, gorilla-like arm on me, “there’s your sparkling conversation and nice underwear.”
“I donated those to goodwill,” I lied, while giving him a half-gentle stiff-arm.
“You remind me of my parents,” Sophie says.
The tea (the best tea is scandalous). Lisa’s friend Baker dashed back to her room between classes yesterday. She’d forgotten the big paper she had to turn-in. It was a mad dash and passing a roommate’s open door, she realized that the girl was lowkey ************ Lisa, delighted to be an interlocutor in the matter, due to Baker’s overplus embarrassment, Lisa's trying to suggest next steps in a post-shock protocol.
Oct 28, 2022
Oct 28, 2022 at 2:30 PM UTC
A loving father and husband
To provide for your family
Heading to office
When birds greet
Dawn with chorus
Hark, hark and hark
Back home, sitting
Over a computer till
It gets pitch dark
Bearing a workload
That could cause
ED if not a heart attack,
You make sure luxuries
Your wife and
Off springs never lack,
To indirectly ram home
Your love for
Your better half
As a broad day light
Is stark.
But when your marriage
Lost its ****** spark
Her resolution shattered
She sought love
Behind your back.
You failed to sensitize
Her about her beauty
Your number one duty,
Also sometimes making
A paradigm shift
You were not
A bit naughty.
Out of line from a
Henpecked husband,
You failed to defamiliarize
That do not you realize?
You should have made her
Feel an object of desire
That was what could have
Rekindled the flame
And the fire.
When you make
Love to her
Think not what
Makes you buckle
Under depression
Such as lack of promotion,
Ego-rocking feelings
Must not distract
Your attention.
You should ever try
To scale ****** new height
Every night.
Workaholic, unless
You jog, jog and jog
When you go to bed
For her you will be
No better than a log.
To the dump yard
She could throw you
A broken toy
Unless you afford her
A joy
Cuckolded by a man
On the wrong side of a boy.
With someone else
When a woman gets into bed
She deletes you
Out of her soul, heart and head
That is why,
As her husband, she denied
You a go ahead!
Mindful of this fact
It is not too late
To fix a date
Stop your
Fate to lament!
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
First, don’t go to any of your lectures.
Drink
yourself half-to-death,
hope
to fall into a coma. Have fun
while you do this.
Make it so bad that the friend
who was once
your drug dealer
expresses concern
for your health. Step two:
Don’t study either,
procrastinate, find sick notes,
push back the date
for the inevitable
until there’s one day left
and the workload might **** you.
Finally, step three;
stand on the steps
outside the exam hall, smoking,
have your dad call you
explaining
the death of a good friend’s father.
Use your last ten minutes
to ring old friends who need to know.
Pass on the message,
blank,
leave the exam after twenty minutes,
cry in the bathroom
and go.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Didn’t I hear you say the lawn I would mow?
Sundays come and Sundays go.
Grasses are taller so are the ****
Season is going where’s the flower seed?
Words aren’t taxed you use them free
Said this Sunday you would clean the chimney.
Wash the toilet scrub clean the commode
Sundays come piles up workload.
Lot of things to mend lots to replace
Why Sundays trudge in leisurely pace?
Why the bed conspires the morn breathes chill
Why must I lie back to get the Sunday feel?
Why Sunday is one day and not a whole week
Comes up the Monday devilish and bleak!
Sundays will come and Sundays will go
As for my work only a poem or two to show!
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:12 AM UTC
You know how I work
You know the amount of work I put in
Every hour, every day
Every week, every month
It would be the easiest thing in the world
To slack off, for a change
Or work at a snail's pace
After all, I've worked with you
For a long, long time
Therefore, it would be easy for me to think
That I am indispensable
Or that I can take you for granted
But if I do that
Then I wouldn't be Ashwin
So, coming back to the point
You know I am overworked
In fact, we all are
You have even acknowledged it
At some point or the other
And are trying to set things right
By adding more people to the team
However, for some reason
Things have always ended up going south
At the eleventh hour
While I do appreciate your endeavours
What I would really like
Is for you to appreciate our efforts
On a regular basis
And try as far as possible
To ensure some balance in the workload
So that we don't end up biting more than we can chew
After all, a few people have recently left
You don't want to add to that number, do you?
So, please think twice
Before assigning any new mandates
Especially to someone who hasn't fully recovered from COVID yet
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 12:42 PM UTC
Landing at Belfast International Airport always made Byron feel better, but nowhere near the way he used to feel when Megan was alive. He was glad for the busy workload ahead of him, a very welcome distraction.
The latest nightmare revealed more to him than usual, which, according to his phsychiatrist, was a good thing. Climbing into a cab, Byron opened his laptop and immediately noticed the little envelope at the top of the screen. Messages from the site. Beautiful Words was a luxury, especially since adding his new friend, pen name Maiden, real name, Holly.
Byron could be a normal person on the site, no disfigurements, no judgement, and nobody would ever know about the fire, his failure to save his Megan.Of course, people could read between the lines but that was unlikely.
The message from Holly read "Dearest Phantom, i was so moved by your latest poem..." It went on to state her amazement at Byrons last name, Lorde. " is it really true? so, your name is lord Byron in reverse?" Byron felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought of someone noticing his name, for the first time,.
Byrons mother was a lover of poetry, especially romantic poets, hence his name.The opportunity was irresistable , her name being Lorde.Megans grandfather would poke fun at Byron, saying he was lucky his mother didn't like Edgar Allen Poe.
He almost replied immediately but noticed he'd reached his destination, shutting the laptop, promising himself to pay more attention to beautiful Words, Holly, Jester, and the rest of the crowd.
Byrons shrink was moonlighting at the local hospital, community work made him feel more human, less robot-like."Well well well," Byron and jake were friends from way back, even before Megan.After the fire,Byron would surely have given up, had it not been for Jake.He poured them both a mineral water while Byron made himself comfy, he knew the drill. The age old cliche, lay down on the couch, close your eyes, "Count backwards from 10, slowly drifting off the closer you get to 1,".
Byron could smell the smoke, taste the charcoal at the back of his throat. He could see her, more clearly than before....
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:23 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
Good afternoon,
my friend,
(hi)
how was your day?
It ******
of course,
days are never good
when you're
drowning in math
swimming in chemistry
struggling at the surface of English
and floating in the deep end of Spanish.
Come home,
you think,
things are better after a rest,
but what rest?
There is no rest for the student,
who flounders in
papers that taste of salt
when they're thrown in the air
in frustration,
creating a breeze that whispers,
freedom
in a distant voice.
Good evening,
my friend,
(hiya)
do not ask me
What's up?
The sky is up
with my workload,
the papers stuck in the lamp
and behind a poster,
where I'll leave it
since at least I know where that is.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
The fear I feel,
Is more than real,
A language oh so old.
Whether tis nobler to do so,
Or to know so,
The actions. The workload. The stress.
It's not just the midsummer nights dream,
That I wish would lay to rest,
But the process which I fear.
An expectation oh so high,
It feels like Everest to climb.
The challenge academics face,
Is not that great at all.
But to me I see,
The fear to be,
what little time I have.
To learn the lines,
get dolled up to the nines
Step out and say to ye,
Is it for me?
To be or not to be.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
I cannot formulate the words I want to convey
I want to say that I'm frustrated
I want to say that I'm impatient
I want to say that I'm being crushed with a workload
But that is not enough
The tremble of my flesh aches from inside my skin and out
I feel the tension flowing through my bones as if they were a calming drug gone wrong
A drug meant to infuriate
A drug meant to devour your hope from inside out
And it's sad to say that I've been feeling this for so long
I hardly carry any of that gift that many speak of
The gift of contentedness that wobbles upon your shoulders as thin as air
That keeps you calm and serene, floating above
The rest of the people who are swimming satisfied in their own misery
As for me
I am drowning
Drowning under air, drowning under an imaginary pile of feelings and emotions
And things that I refuse to think about or even acknowledge
I sometimes pretend that I have no heart at all
I watch all the others around me banter and fall
I stay clinging to the hope I don't have
To keep myself safe
I am not safe
What is safe?
Secure?
Content?
The actual definition varies from flesh to fresh
I have not found my definition yet
But I know it's not this
Then why,
Why do I cling so tightly to the hope I do not possess?
In hopes of keeping myself in a tranquil, loveless, rest?
Yes
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
I blink the room to a distant light source,
the power shifts, a balance or blue and black,
Black and blue goes my heart,
as my mind argues if I did everything,
right,
My eyes know this haze, heavy workload has weighed down these lids,
Unable to scavenge, left to rely on a system that tends to repeat,
that tends to repeat,
I blink the room becomes a distant light source,
No matter how far I can feel it's indifference,
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi,
Is the distance between me and the next crash,
Sipping on the adrenaline kicker,
find,
That between the moment of here and now is a very long time,
1 Apple, 2 Apple, 3 Apple, 4 Apple,
Seconds don't always repeat,
What should I do today?
I blink the lights to a blue a lot of us know.
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
I currently don't have the drive to be poetic.
All this workload makes me feel like
I'm Atlas carrying the burden they call Earth.
In other words, I am so stressed.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Solemnity foreshortened--the press
of limbs...hence, the wide smile of
the enacted.
Our meeting ground shimmies
toward an eternal density...as to
alight the spiritual workload of its
benefactors.
A floating people, we...dead-stopped
by the ends of our living.
Lucidly signed away we progress
our will...no intervention dissuades
lesser or greater action/inaction.
Something's come, a brazen head,
revivified--its definitions alien
and wide open...wide open.
Eyes don reality as a membrane
just to conceive it--as there are
days when a flower of unspecified
genus is a terrible offering.
Our overcompensation precedes
us...it is our passion anticipating
itself.
For once fire knows of itself, it is too
settled to recall ash.
As...he/she lit their bastion of faith
without provocation.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
ah, welcome today!
tasty breakfast, morning news
hair put up to stay!
ah, welcome today!
bright sunlight, whispy clouds
traffic flowing my way!
ah, welcome today!
a hug hello, a coffee cup
workload kept at bay!
ah, welcome today!
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Are you aware of how many times in a day I hear the phrase **** yourself or myself used?
I constantly hear it from my peers, friends, teachers, authority figures, family, and even strangers.
It's used in math class when kids complain about the workload.
And again when the teachers warn us to be safe in gym class.
It's said by my peers to kids over the internet in hopes they'll feel as terrible as they do.
Used when my family tell stories of embarrassment.
One may argue why it's such a big deal and this is what I'll tell you:
Suicide is not a joke; it's not something to casually throw around.
It's someones life forever gone and many life's changed because of it.
That's the big deal.
It's not okay to say "This makes me want to **** myself!"
or "You should just **** yourself!"
nor is it okay to say "Are you trying to **** yourself?"
I refuse to believe it is a part of modern day language.
Currently the Oxford English dictionary has approximately 220,000 words in it.
That means there's no excuse to use those words the way they are currently being used when you have that many options.
And if I have to ask one favour, it's to respect mental illness and the deaths every year that happen because of it.
Nearly 1 million people across the world die by suicide each year. That's 1 death every forty seconds.
All of whom pass away because of this have family and friends grieving.
Saying that is not only offensive but can be triggering to those around you.
It's not okay and there is no longer an excuse.
Take it out of your vocabulary.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
While working my routine at Amazon
picking the same items I always have before
I was trans shipped to trans ship
filling me with anxiety
understanding unfamiliarity
nerve racked novice
sweat trickles down my face
soaking into my PPE.
Two man crew I'm meant to join
black guys wearing reflective vests
"I'm here to help, can you help me?"
blank stare foreground
empty workload background
perplexed aesthetic
French accented walls muffle communication
I form a reluctant alliance with repetition
yet my counterpart understands everything I say.
Their patience eases my troubled mind
when my capability falls short of my enthusiasm
hand gestures guide me free of frustration
I stay silent, only saying
"I'd talk more but I figure it'd be a hassle"
my learning ambassador understands
but his extra steps start a conversation
creating comforting small-talk acclimating aliens.
Sydna and Josue from Ivory Coast and Congo respectively
and respectful was all I wanted to be
yet I got the impression Josue was uncomfortable
after I had brought up gold, diamonds, and oil
but Sydna had taken control of the conversation
telling me all about the lottery he won to be here
I wondered what lottery's prize was living in Cincinnati
to work a factory job in Hebron.
We work bundling totes together
printing confusing and mysterious tags
reading ACY, CMH, SDF, JFK, or CSG
these bundles will be leaving CVG eventually
carried away on skids
to their indifferent destination
of the same capitalist company
just at another fulfillment center.
I guess I should be more grateful
to be in the poor nation of transportation
but I'm not—I'd rather be picking
where I can communicate with compatriots freely
but I'm far away from the south mod now
near the north side red tag area talking to strangers
it's just a shame
because there's plenty of material where I came from
but transitory shipment is where the work is.
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 10:59 PM UTC
Tuesdays are my
good days
safe days
happy days
they are the most routine,
the most reliable,
the steadiest
when I wake up and know that
I will go to school
and will have my lightest workload
of the week
and therefore the least stress
and then after school
I will go to piano lessons
run some errands
then go to the library
to pick up a few books to read that week
and later, go to youth group
but both this week and last,
as I stepped into my favorite part of routine,
I was met by your cold black eyes
looking at me from between the bookshelves
and the awful sensation that lingers afterward for so many hours
I'm beginning to think Tuesdays aren't so safe anymore.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC