working 9 to 5: assembling monotony

dedicated to my mother and all those worldwide who work 9 to 5 assembling monotony......

I've been working at
my monotony since the first
bill of survival arrived.

I've drilled 400 million
holes of continuous misery into my cranium
that now, all doctors can say is,
migraine is your pain.

I've constructed
piece after piece,
product after product,
hour after hour,
for plant after plant,
a mechanical nothingness.

I have worn my blood, sweat and tears
in grease, stain, and fears,
the physical torture,
that I've grown to become.

I have swept,
cleaned,
mopped,
and spot-dried repeatedly,

my own identity,
into oblivion.

I have come to realize that the more I work,
the more I construct,
the more I build,
the more I cook,
the more I key-punch,
the more I sweep,

the less I earn,
the less I'm respected,
the less I eat,
the less we eat,
the less we have,

the less we laugh,
the less we smile,

yet concurrently,

the more I drink,
the more I cry,
the more I hit,
the more I blame,
the more I beat,
the more I hurt,
the more it hurts,

to live,
to smile,
to cope,
to hope,
to talk,
to enjoy,

the more I want to die...
but it was not I,
who gave in to the corporate lie.

Both you and I know that
we were never meant to rise.
We were the ones who were stepped on
for them to attain their prize...

but it was not I,
who died.

I long to breathe,
the breath of life,

I long to live away
from this so-called progressive life...

I scream to hear
my own voice of pain,
of hatred,
stabbing,
bleeding,
my internal being,
hoping to be found
by you,
by me...

I tired,
I hurt,
I pain,
I bleed pus of
mechanical
robotic
restrain...

I cannot remain,
I living dead,
morbid remains...

I only dream,
alarm clock says
4:00 a.m.,
it tells no lies,

as I must rush
to my own demise.

I clock in,
or the bills stack,
high rise.

I,
pay the prize,
for progressive lies,
for what
I ask,
is my monotony,
a democratic prize?
And still
not for work,
I must rise.
I must rise.
I must rise.


Written by: Cesar A. Cruz