A poem about the last conversation with my worst boss, during which he said that I and my whole generation were entitled.
I lash at hands
which feed on me.
Generations heard cracking
whips, factory bells, systems designed
by Powers that be in Submission.
Watching fortunes made on broken backs,
broken sleep cycles, work/life imbalance, watching
blaming for the broken
backs not working harder, broken sleep cycles for tiredness,
the work/life balance for laziness.
But a broken back only makes billions
for the one who owns it, employs it
when tied together with the others
like a golden raft. I don't have a golden parachute
or anything of value but what is in my heart, my mind, my soul.
What makes my grandmother have less value
than others because she worked hard
and did not start with investments, believed pensions
would protect her, and now struggles.
Did my mother deserve to die in poverty
because her body broke and could work
never more?
And now I am entitled
for working hard in school, in college, in postgrad
taking on loans which break my bank
for an education I was required, encouraged
to achieve. I hear you, you are deaf to me;
I won't sacrifice myself on your alter
to your wealth, motherfucker.
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