Long Paychecks Poems
Long Paychecks Poems. Below are the most popular long Paychecks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paychecks poems by poem length and keyword.
There is overwhelming evidence of lack of learning.
It appears all of his paychecks he is burning.
Those rusty gears in his head are slowly turning.
To this day, he remains as ignorant as hell.
Will he learn his lesson? Nobody can tell.
All his casino visits leave room for doubt.
Just see the way he acts with each seven out.
Into his shallow pockets, he continues to dip.
He continues to make each long Atlantic City trip.
He loses, but keeps going back for more.
He may soon be as extinct as a dinosaur.
For a larger brain, there seems to be no room.
His intelligence can be swept away with a broom.
That is why since birth, he has been a “boomboom”.
A fit is thrown at the mere suggestion that they have to memorize something.
Memorization is boring.
They refuse.
What is the point?
We have the Internet.
We have I-pads.
We have I-phones.
We do not have spelling lists any more.
Spelling tests are passé’. Too boring. Too much memorization.
What is the point?
Math facts? Why should we learn them? They are on the Internet, right?
Our standardized tests scores are in the toilet. Who cares? As long as we can play our nightly video games. We do not have to read for many of them.
Multiplication tables? Overdone.
Addition facts? Useless.
Dictionary? Fiction-ary.
Children of today will not be able to write a sentence or spell a word or check their paychecks
If technology goes down. We can say we are paying them $500 an hour, and pay them $3 an hour.
It is the way of the future, and is this not grand?
Clock in, clock out
Wake, commute, work, sleep, repeat
They say I'm making a living
But where in this equation am I alive?
Traded my sunrise for spreadsheets
My sunset for status reports
My laughter for leader boards
My dreams for direct deposits
We're all running on this hamster wheel
Spinning faster just to stay in place
"Success" measured in square footage
And vacation days we're too exhausted to take
They sold us a promise:
Work hard now, live later
But later keeps getting pushed back
Like a horizon we never reach
When did we agree
That breathing means producing?
That existing means earning?
That value equals output?
My grandmother's hands knew real work
Soil under fingernails, calluses with purpose
She worked to live
I live to work
The system whispers:
"Just one more promotion"
"Just one more year"
"Just one more sacrifice"
While life slips through fingers
Clutching paychecks
Making a living
What a curious phrase
As if living itself
Is something manufactured
Something we must earn the right to do
I want to make a life instead
Rich with moments that don't fit on resumes
Abundant with connections no algorithm can track
Wealthy with experiences no bank can hold
Because making a living
Without actually living
Is the most expensive purchase
We never meant to make.
Smoke ‘em if you got them.
Save the bottles for return.
That hippie needs a haircut.
What the hell’s a Lady Bird?
My Christmas tree had bubble lights,
My watch lit up at night.
Four-bits for my gasoline
And Cassius won the fight.
Music was a wall of sound.
A Stingray running fast,
Footsteps left upon the moon,
War’s ended, "Peace at Last".
Paychecks from the mills and mines,
From Ford and IBM.
Farming amber waves of grain
That’s how it was back then.
From all around on Friday nights
The hometown crowd, the football lights.
The pom-pom girls would dance and cheer,
I saw you there far so near.
And though my odds were slim & none
I had to try to make my run,
And never look back on the day
I had my chance and walked away.
The party went ‘til midnight,
Coors and California Dip.
The Ventures playing “Pipeline”.
You said “Let's do The Twist!”.
We dated first on New Year's Eve,
I looked into your eyes.
We tied the knot in April,
We made love until July.
But the world and I spun faster then,
You tried to be my rock.
Me, I acted like a fool.
You said “Its time we talk!“.
I thought I was your shining knight
And you my Perfect 10.
Why can't we get back to be just
Like we were back then?
Throughout time there’s joy and pain,
We can't expect things not to change.
When it was time to leave our mark,
Time after time I broke your heart.
The Texas sun goes down again.
A long day's work about to end.
Forty miles to drive back home
Flip on the light and drink alone.
Damned if I know why it all changed,
Wish I could tell you when.
I only wish that I could make it
Like it was back then.
I watched a sparrow go mad
Right in front of me
It charged a red bush like a bull to a matador
To build a spring nest in November
Head first through the air
It smashed into the branches
Shaking and breaking its tiny bones with fury
Weaving the straw of this insanity
Into something more familiar
Beneath its wings and hoofs
As the summer-like day cooked
The record books
They’re not telling the truth
On Fox News or across the AM dial
Or from the pulpit of Reddit and Energy
They’re just making money money money money money
Maintaining those ratings tithings and paychecks
Audiences waving their white hankies
Ole’ ole’ ole’!
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
When did the concept of family become
a tired cliché of phased-out tradition
in need of redefining?
And when did we abandon our parental duties
to glorified babysitters with no real interest
in our childrens' physical and emotional development
outside of their weekly paychecks?
We are bombarded by screaming advertisements
dictating an acceptable standard of living
requiring two or more incomes and
measuring our success by the sum total
of our net worth.
The decline of civilization progresses
as fast food replaces home-cooked meals
and quality time is staring blankly
at a flat screen television
with a group of strangers
living under the same roof.
From K to 12 there is that bell
That goes off writing the word with the correct spell
Run youngster class is over now have some fun
When year fourteen rolls around
Higher education academic can be found
Where the lecturer can be heard chiming in, “I’m done”
“Go to the library the books will say welcome”
Sixteen years in total
Of Intelligent building exercises to put into the brain’s folder
All this, what to get a job?
When opportunity knocks and turns the knob
Actually it is preparing for life
And the contributions to society that at times combat strife
Learning is maturity
An investment that on the surface has its purity
Enjoy the time in the intellect’s hall
Then make this call
Interpret, ponder and question
Take away what you want from the lesson
In the real world
Of researching paychecks for pearls
That only ends up encountering a diamond that is real
The education decision will show that it was the right deal
Do you make sure to tap all the dirt from your spikes with your bat,
even if it takes two full-length TV time-outs for you to do so?
Do you cross yourself once, twice, thrice,
or perhaps fidget and fiddle with the letters on your uniform,
no matter that they're sewn on so tightly that Superman himself couldn't
budge 'em?
Do you rub your hands together vigorously enough to make 'em bleed,
perhaps because you've just spit into them in the on-deck circle?
Do you take myriad cumbersome practice swings with three weighted bats,
flinging them aside to wave the feathery club remaining menacingly as you
turn to face the pitcher?
Do you dance and prance to some hip melody, like an apprentice snake-
charmer, as you approach the plate, inviting fans to heap trashloads of scorn and abuse on the batting helmet perched atop your fashionably overlong hair?
Or do you stride to the plate purposefully without all of that fussing and
fumbling, or all that commotion, to focus on doing what batters have
historically tried to do, which is to hit the tarnation out of that little round
ball zooming toward them at upwards of 90 m.p.h?
---Well, if that's what you do, then I am sure you're not a major-league player:
They earn their $4.5 million annual paychecks by doing
all that other stuff.
This cannot be the end,
There must be more in store,
I cannot believe
My life is complete,
I’m still hungry for more.
Merely Seventeen today,
Can’t believe I feel this way.
Life was once so bright to me,
Not it just fades away…
My dreams become fantasy,
Mere liabilities,
Get a job and earn the rent,
Passion dies with paychecks spent.
Thirty-five years old next week,
I should be proud when I speak,
But I just don’t feel that way
Despite my wife and kids.
I know I love them dear,
They comfort me when near,
But I see ever day ahead of me
A churning, burning monotony.
Fifty-five and I can play,
Rock has always been my way.
Critics once looked up to me,
Now I’m ‘too old’ they say.
But the notes still comes and flow,
In rhythmic rock and roll.
But they try and show me the door,
Saying I’m a dinosaur.
Ninety-five years old,
Bones are feeling cold,
In my mind things aren’t as sharp
As they used to be.
The memories grow dim,
The passing days more grim.
This all can’t be as it seems,
I still pray it’s a bad dream.
This cannot be the end,
There must be more in store,
I cannot believe
My life is complete.
I’m still hungry for more.