On Blue Collar

As the day pushes through
I become a tool, a brainless machine, producing all my boss’s needs.
A uniformed dot that beams with hatred as I go home intact.
I silence the cries and punch the clock, as long as I can savour my scheduled blink.
Fed up but I can’t leave.
I’m built to give the Man the strength to overcome,
his dread that one day he’ll wake up as one of us.
Indistinguishable soldiers longing for the night,
to exit the factory and save our thoughts, the only gear we control.

As the night fuels my roots
I become a fool, a bottomless whirlwind, absorbing all my senses’ greeds;
fermented drops that reach this paper as others go home intact.
I listen to their eyes and see their words while they evolve as much as I shrink.
I’m drunk but never leave.
I could receive enough to create what I lack,
my longings clinging to their talks as I remain one.
My comfort a golden ticket lurking in a pint,
to get me in the factory as the same old dot, to talk, to feel that I belong.

By Alex Black

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