Unpaid wages

We’ve earned more than we’ve received,
but our compensation’s
just the validation that we’ve even worked at all.
And this separation of class
is just a preparation for these affiliations
where knowledge of desperation
seems to come only from estimations,
like those lonely observations
of bitter infestations
where the rest stations
are kept too far apart for any of us to risk movement.

We’ve recreated procreation as a pastime
and we celebrate by desecrating our lands,
like we were dedicating ourselves to something more,
just to validate the relocation of other species
and like we were allocating responsibilities
we move people around
like they were made of paper
and not sweat
and we forget
to let virtues through these rusted gates.
And these looks we get and give
are acting out our reasons,
reasons that change like seasons
behind the kind of actions
that come with intermissions
and secret competitions
where the recognition of ammunition
is just the quiet exhibition of their coalitions’ ambitions.
Where the intensity of their abilities
are debilitating the agility of legitimacy
and where there’s room for equality,
they squeeze in hostility
and this anxiety becomes infinitely more complex.

We’re stuck in a daze
in these days
where the divinity of eternity
fades into the audacity of authority
where those who legalize
still only penalize
what jeopardizes
their moralized values.
But it’s us who energize ourselves
through verbalising our opinions
and realising our own lives are worth risking,
where cyclones of pheromones
can become elegant and free from arrogant masks.

We’re all encompassed in this race,
where the vigilant battle the hesitant
and the miscreants become more confidant
as their labels become fables
and stories become glories.
Because when we start waking up just to go to work,
we let the starvation of our imagination
meet the dehydration of our own concentration
through these lonely repetitions
the meet the validations that dictate
the things we need and want.

Where frustrations swell
just to tell us that those ringing bells
aren’t what’s causing these headaches
and earthquakes
and mistakes
that only frustrate the minds
that’re making money from the sweat
off lower class backs
which should be dripping back
down into the ground that feeds us
and not be found lining the pockets
of those round-bellied bastard’s
who’ve never known
the feel of blisters on their hands
and have only ever laughed
when they’ve signed our checks.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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