Poem : The Overseer

I’m sorry Mr. Boss Man
But
I have a good idea
You have
No good idea what’s going on
It’s just an observation
I may be wrong
But I don’t think that I am
You see
Not much has changed over the years in the south
Just the names of the foremen
The workplace is still the same
The ones that are on unemployment
Stay right where there’re at
For they know the overseer is waiting
With the promise of a raise in one hand and a pink slip in the other
Selling you a future with one breath
While reminding you
You’re not really needed if things get too tight
So, I do what I’ve done for years
I write and put all of my feelings
In this pen pushing across my paper
Dripping with ink filled dreams of hope
Hope that the right one will read my work some day
But until then
I’ll drink coffee to stay awake
With a warm shot of whiskey
So I can stand to be awake
Because working and walking on torn leg muscles
For ten hours a day
Feels like ten years
When your bones feel like they’re pulling out of their sockets
Or simply wake you from your sleep in the night
With an ache of dull hot pain
Like the marrow is boiling inside them
Whiskey becomes your best friend
But it will all work out
As long as I keep pushing my pen on through the night
And believing
It will all work out