In This Place

Work is the twin of rest; Work represses me from tasting the sugar of the day, Represses me from witnessing the launch of the moon, Represses me from fun, from the chaff, wraps me in grief, Even when my gait is breaking like the beak of a red-haired hen from the endless stress, & tears stroll the streets of my face, work appears in the company of a rainstorm, This is not because I like it, but because the choice of freedom is a melting mirage, because freedom is far like an endless sea, What do you do when poverty blinds the love of your parents, and push them to throw you an uncle's place, a place work is the twin of rest? I swear, workhouse chores, errands,... — lace me inside, scripts sadness into my skin even when my mates are in school, But I won't wail in this feeling crawling into my lips, I won't. I won't. I won't. August 12th, 2022 FOR DR HAROLD SHIPMAN POETRY CONTEST BY : JOE MAVERICK