work

Work

Work's a cunt, we know it,
it's something to detest,
despite our souls objections,
we get up and get dressed,

it pays the rent, (or mortgage,
in half happy peoples case),
so with vegimite an' toast,
it's something that we face,

It aint that bad,
the dumb bitch on the till is still half drunk,
walkin' like a new calf,
and smellin' like a skunk,

the kitchen cunt, an arab bloke,
out rolls his muslim mat,
prayin for forgiveness,
(and not to burn the fat),

all is cool and quiet,
everyone's a task,
the idiots from last shift ,
left more than we could ask,

'cause even though we bitch an' moan,
even though we're slack,
we'd rather fix a fuck up,
than fuck up and give back,

so now the day is done,
the shift we can adjourn,
we count the day as won,
and tomorrow we return.

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There once was a time

I open my eyes waking from my sleep,

I step into dreamland when I plant my feet.
After slipping out of bed with her,
I kiss my son and neither stirs.
 
Both sleeping soundly under the roof of our home,
Their minds dance in dreams and their never alone. 
I know their safe left with our wow wow,
If anyone enters their met with a growl.
 
As I get ready for work I listen for the creak,
Of our bedroom door hoping to hear her speak.
The mornings she wakes at the crack of dawn,
Make my heart sing a million love songs. 
 
The day goes by with a huge smile on my face,
Knowing she'll be there when I get back to this place.
When I arrive home the house glows with joy,
"Dada" rings out from the lips of my boy.
 
I am finally there where I belong,
At home with my wife and our boy so strong.
All this possible because of a kiss,
The mornings she wakes early and puckers up her lips.
 
It's all I need to push harder each day,
God I love her in every way.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was the first proem I ever wrote. Nobody.... but her... has ever read it. I am no professional poet, in fact I struggle to find the word's to speak sometimes. But when I wrote this the words just flowed out of my soul. My inspiration for this came one morning when she woke to kiss me goodbye when I was leaving for work. So beautiful, she really is the stuff dreams are made of. She has since moved on and I am struggling to accept it. I'm just a boy in love with a girl. 

The American Dream

Folder: 
Working Life

You call me in, shake my hand, and congratulate me.
I humbly thank you for giving me the opportunity, yet you shove it back in my face and tell me I’ve earned it.
That’s when you go in for the kill. That’s when the inner car salesman comes out to play and you have one shiny bright piece of shit on the playground you’re just dying to sell.
Wife, kids, house, car, dog... I just politely play along and nod my head.
And of course the humoring of what you’re saying only causes you to go even further: boat, clothes, land...
But when you say wife, I hear whores...
When you say kids, I hear an endless supply of PBR...
A dog to you is an ounce of dank to me.
You tell me I’ve just walked in on the American dream.
What many souls backstab and kill to get, I just waltzed right in on and joined the club without even so much as an initiation or password.
A car? Give me a fuckin old guitar that looks of pain and rejoicing engrained deep into the wood.
And what good is a working class man without his house and land??
But I’ll still be renting a shitty room in this shitty town with my pride intact.
Because your dream is to have all this shit, and all that stature. While you all spend money on your spoiled brats and your cheating wives, I’ll be waiting patiently like the finest of hunters.
Because our American dreams differ in the sense that you make money to piss it away on what the most entertaining Super Bowl ad sold you and I make money to smoke Camels, get fucked up and bide my time.
So hopefully one day I can get away from all this shit and live amongst those who are actually free, and home to those brave enough not to go with this crowd.

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For My Darling Daughter!

Now, I don’t really care, she is my grown-up girl
Once I was the oyster to protect my baby pearl

That was the time, to her a lullaby I would sing
She would gently fall asleep, beneath my caring wings

And now is the time, my girl is busy, full of aggression
Wrinkles on my eyes desperately seek her attention

Then a day arrived when she said,
‘Mum it’s your birthday, let’s celebrate’

At home I awaited her, for a mother-daughter meet
I cooked chicken for her that day, my darling loves it!

But she dint turn up as promised, my heart sank
I consoled myself, she must be playing pranks

She came home late night, no wishes, no celebration
Just a ‘Good Night’, she had forgotten the occasion

Hush lil heart! She is grown up after all, those emotions won’t stay
Hope she is in safe hands, from the core of my heart I pray!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A message from a mother to her really busy daughter... i love my mum and care for all those who at this age need to seek attention from their child.

Two weeks to deadline

Two weeks to dead line

Two week dead line as I sit on the 18 foot roof
As I sit there with feet shins and legs paining
Hands so sore I couldn`t pick up my hot cup of joe that morning at the crack of dawn
feelin like shit but yet such a amazing feeling That I could fly of that roof
I didn`t back down
I didn`t quit
I didn`t Give up
If you were to ask me two weeks ago ``What are you going to build``
I would have said `` a garage``
But Still as I sit on the roof On the hot layed metal I put blood And sweat into hours ago
I didn`t just build a garage
I build
I pushed
I bled
myself
I`m just a little bit stronger
Just a bit more prouder
and as I climb down the shitty ladder scared to set a cup of coffee
Without it braking
I realize I have to build Myself up
Build it just a little bit stronger
Everyday We work
Either hard labor
Or hard metal labor
Barely abell to take off my nail bag
With A smile on my face
A new chapter Open In my life
I get in the old halftun truck
and drive away as the sunsets
I know I did my best
I know I'll rest good tonight

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My two weeks

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The beers arising

Folder: 
Time for change

Put the tool belt down 
And set the Wood aside
Life's about to get wild tonight
Let's lift our glass up to the sky
Drink em down till we pass out
Whoa o o let's go ahead and get crazy now
Tip the glass till we fall down
Whoa o o it's that time of day again
Drinking till we spin round

Let's take a break from this work day
Let's drink a drink and lets make out
Go ahead and Tip your glasses in your mouth
A toast for you a toast for now
Whoa o o I like em light but full of stout
The more we drink the louder we shout
"let raise our glass like we know how and drink em loud and slam them down"
Whoa o o lets go ahead and get crazy
Whoa o o let's go ahead drink right now!!! 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Drink a drink like you know how :)))

On my feet

Folder: 
Work, work, work

Life is a contest
The tough can make and reap success
But it’s so lonely up here
Tis’ a place made for the few
Telling people what and how to do
A desire to stay afloat
Would take a toll on your boat
One should be firm but remain soft
In order not to end up
Feeling stressed and burn-out.

Feel so tired at the end of the day
Yet I must stay put and be happy
For what would happen if I wouldn’t be?
Can I just curl up and stay away?
When mundane things sometimes go messy
Could I ask somebody?
To take over just for a little while
So I can catch my breath
Renew my strength
And be on my feet again.

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The Nine to Fiver

Tick, tick, tick,
Tick tat, tick tat, tick tat,
Giggle, giggle,
Cough and wiggle,
Work Towards the Status Quo...
Maintain the Status Quo ...
exceed the status quo?
NO.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem while working at my dead end job where all I am considered is a number with a daily quota to finish.

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Nine Hour Hum

This is the housed professional that envelops day to day,
complete with foreign coffee mugs
that denote a person's age.

My enclosure has three walls, none of which imprison
or echo breaths or words or calls,
beyond my own derision.

And when I need a ladder to climb from 'neath fluorescents,
there is a door that goes by card,
with knowing bulb candescent.

The handle is a question mark on this caffeinated tankard.
It scolds me raw with rising steam,
and leers with spices haggard.

It insists I am an older man despite my tragic youth.
Its years I've yet to cultivate,
their wisdom yet imbued.

But it keeps me woke and wary of the passing workplace fellow,
their baskets filled with sugared filth
that cater to my mellow.

I'll take it to the cafeterium and say hello while going,
content with thoughts of politics
in offices worth strolling.

There I will converse anew with friends and strangers still,
happy with my hoodie on,
and trying not to spill.

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