Long Workme Poems
Long Workme Poems. Below are the most popular long Workme by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Workme poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Diary, the crazies were out at work today,
I smiled a fake smile, wishing they'd go away.
They complain about prices and they whine just like fools.
I'm just a cashier, I don't make the rules.
They tell me they think our prices too high.
Sure I can control that, ya, when pigs fly.
They tell me about all their aches and their pains
And could I please hurry up, as they bang with their canes.
They ask the price of every item I scan
Hoping there's a mistake, it's part of their plan
To prove that the stores are robbing them blind.
They scrutinize the receipt, just hoping to find
Any excuse at all to just throw a fit.
My tongue's always sore from where it's been bit.
When the full moon is nigh it gets even worse,
The strange ones get stranger, like under a curse.
Now don't get the wrong idea of just what I meant.
Dear Diary, it's only to you that I vent.
Yes Dear Diary the place is really a zoo,
But I love my job......so what can you do?
I don't care anymore. You are the most wonderful thing I've ever seen in my life.
Everytime you look at me I want to explode. You're doing some sort of yoga move in front
of me which you claim not to be yoga with your 15-year-old autistic client, rubbing your feet
into his hand, bending over him between a giant cushy yellow soft-leathered cylinder, your
hair dangling over him, now up in a pony-tail as you resituate your thighs, steadied and
jeaned in that young and smart physique, a show of craving futures for my sitting nature,
not more than two feet away.
I will love you from afar with light beams if I must. We'll be left to devour each other with
our eyes. In hot-quick glances.
I’m excited, I got a job
I now work for Bob Bob’s Gob Shop
They asked me to stand outside and sell
These white packets, of what I cannot tell
But I was shifting the goods a hundred an hour
I felt alive excited and empowered
Mothers and fathers were buying off me
And giving their kids, who named the stuff LSD
I didn’t hear it clearly at first,
Until I was arrested and that’s when I feared the worst
The police took me to their van
God only knows I tried to run and then… Man,
I got the tasered,
And did a twenty-five second bad imitation of Bob Marley crossed with Jo Fraser
They called me a dope peddler
An addict enforcing meddler
The cops tasered me again and beat me up
Then left me laying in a pile, yelping like a helpless pup
Then took me to a room with a table that had a pile of white powder,
And three inch black sticks they called hash, my mouth went sour.
They questioned me further demanding who was my supplier
As they kept me dancing at the end of the taser wire
I screamed Bob and Bob of the Gob Shop
They stopped and said this must be their under cover job
Just then the chief of police walked in
He looked at me with that we gotcha grin
He took a bit of the white powder and put it on the tip of his tongue
Then with s surprised look as if he got stung
The chief of police quickly picked me up dusted me off and apologised
He said “Don’t worry sir, I’ll punish these guys”
One policemen said “But sir his a drug dealler, selling LSD?”
“How could you be willing to set him free”
The Chief shouted “YES THIS IS LSD, NOW READ MY LIPS”
“LIQUORICE SHERBET DIPS”
Well as a consolation, I got a house and a car out of them,
Never went back to that job again.
It is assumed that fame
comes after death,
when nobody could imagine
how strong was the thirst
for the dawn's dew;
how solitude was found
to embrace it as a loyal friend!
Has life ever revealed itself,
and let you vaguely peak in:
to satisfy your curiosity or whim?
Visions can't turn into dreams that are blissful,
if the dreamer is not willing to share:
all words must fit into that image,
unless it turns out to be a mirage;
something that can be seen, but not touched!
Tales are transformed into reality,
heroes and heroines without fragility;
I have attempted to create that illusion of invincibility...
by allowing my imagination to wildly roam,
just to discover how it would feel to be admired!
What makes me remarkable...
is the unique talent to mimic others,
to make all my creations credible,
not competing with those whose work is incomparable,
appealing to the more mundane who love vicious lies!
Favored by the common people,
I am not the loud charlatan
or the delirious circus clown,
fitting in a somber novel,
I would write about to ridicule any individual!
Nostalgia don't be hesitate to return,
and make my sealed lips abruptly burn...
who can welcome my arrival, if they won't let me speak?
The notion of fame after death is totally false,
my expectation is not too obsessive to make me lose my endurance;
it is utterly inappropriate for me not to enjoy a victorious moment:
when tragedy can strike me and disrupt the idealistic shape of my concept!
I don't fight for the survival of a brilliant persona;
I only pursue humility and dignity to define what I teach,
not to justify the errors and the faults of my drama!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Writing deeply and avidly
is another way of coping,
if seeing that not-so-pleasant reality;
and feeling the presence of truth,
encourages one to reveal oneself
and being true to all words:
perfectly thought out, not hesitant to burst out...
Many write for profit,
modifying their sentiment,
to make it fit into the demanding times,
so that cunning stories can pay off
without considering whom they hurt;
I am very polite when I express myself,
discerning what is worthwhile telling or not...
Will I strike it rich and be lauded
for my work, which strays from the required trend?
Fortune may make me happy...never complete;
my role is not to act out sheer vanity, but to implement
the importance of greatness
that awaits me after my death...
And with pen and intellect, my ideas
flow on paper delighting my readers
who are continuously amazed by its insight!
I can be hostile, bitter,sad, infuriated, unsympathetic, happy or kind,
but these emotions have stirred those who proceeded me;
to get their message across: for the sake of Humanity....
copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
1. Dimple under left eye, apply air brush.
2. Extend her legs, more voluptuous. Add 4 inches from ankle to knee cap.
3. You know...I'm just not feeling the dress. Do we have one of her in that green strapless?
Men like strapless right?
4. Holy hell! Can we do something about those teeth? Yuck!
5. She needs a glow around her head. Yeah like that, like an angel. Fantastic!
6. Rosy hue around cheek bones needs touch up. She needs to blush harder, like she's
embarrassed about something...something shameful.
7. Final edit, her smile is too big, women that happy don't read magazines...what? Don't look
at me like that!
Et Voila! Our hyper-stylized over-edited fictitious standard of beauty is realized.
Ok society!
Get ready...
Set...
Conform!
(Conformity ensues)
Bonus points! We got a celebrity to do the cover shoot.
(Hey, you can only sell your soul once and chances are she already did it...Christ, stop
looking at me like that!!!)
When she takes home her free promotional copy,
She can hold up our ideal of her side by side with the mirror and think:
"Wow...these images are so different and yet...I sense a strange and *vogue familiarity...
Almost as though...just maybe...they were of the same person...
Huh...I wonder which one represents me?"
*Typo alert! Should be 'vague'...silly me
On the wind's current,
face-swept and braving fret;
I push forward...facing a tough day,
never fainthearted: merrily drifting away!
I challenge my strength,
to fuse more enthusiasm;
to beat the puzzled clouds with ingenuity,
and they, frustrated, initiate a plot against me!
I laugh, making them infuriated,
and they respond with stronger blows;
thinking they can't be imitated!
Don't they know that I watch all their moves?
Call me a marine or a sky-diver,
I may not look too convincing for a liar;
the open sky lets me on the wind's current,
lifting me off the earth to deliver my stunt!
Where are my rivals? Are they hiding or
planning my imminent defeat?
I may be too naive to cheat,
but I am as swift as a hunting panther!
On the wind's current so rough,
aware and attentive, I make my living;
chasing the fearless eagles with a bluff,
vulnerable...yes, but unafraid and willing!
Copyright by Andrew Crisci
I like to exercise my mind, but how I hate to work.
Whatever needs exertion is the action that I shirk.
Labor with the brain is fine. I do it all the time.
How I love to sit and read or think of words that rhyme.
But send me to the bathroom with a brush so that I'll scrub,
and I'll barely rub the ring off. Then I'll lie there in the tub.
Peek inside; you'll find me, a novel in one hand,
resting as I'm soaking in my own little Bubble Land.
Clean the oven? What a joke. The most that I can stand
is loading up the wash machine (a task that's merely bland).
Maybe run the vacuum once a week across the floor,
and quickly dab where dust is bad; most stuff I ignore.
As my jobs all pile up, housework's even more a chore.
Why must work that's physical be such a dreadful bore?
My well-ingrained aversion to utilizing muscle
does have one exception: at the gym I like to hustle.
To kick box is so fun although it makes me sweaty.
Step and dance are choreographed. For those I'm always ready.
But I wish that just as quickly as from running on a tread
I could burn up calories doing workouts in my head!
After a hard day's work,
these weary feet drag me home,
with the urge of pulling the cork
from the red wine chilling in the cooler;
and smell steaming pasta primavera into a large bowl...
before I am tempted by my gluttonery desire!
Simple pleasures like relaxing my elbows
on a comfortable leather sofa,
with legs stretched-out on soft cotton pillows
and watching a dramatic soap opera;
pop-corn, potato-chips and beer...
yes, for a toast to health, indeed!
I may start to yawn and fall asleep...
unless, through my open window, spiders will slowly creep;
and crawl onto my arms and face,
but one sneeze blows them away, and
trust me on this: the others won't certainly play around,
when they hear the scheme of my surprise!
And if ideas bubble up into my energetic brain,
more plentifull than memories they'll tap this imagination;
and with pen and pad I'll spend hours contemplating inspiration,
and shouldn't it come swiftly while I cool off by the oscillating fan,
the dreariness of an empty home can effect my solitary mood:
and more than a melancholic moon...I'll vainly brood!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
You know, I thought changing one’s job would be easy,
To start a new vocation would be breezy.
I got me local newspaper, looking for a job as a sparky, (electrician)
But I said “what the F-ck, these ads were written by a sarky.”
The first job was an “Almond Knocker,”
Now this sounds as sleazy as sniffing used jockstraps in a locker.
Who wants to look for an almond the shape of a woman’s top half of her anatomy,
But, looking at women’s breast to find one that looks like an almond, appeals to me.
The second job was a “Blind Hooker,”
Now what can I say, that’s a woman’s job and boy she’ll have to be a looker.
She would be the cheapest thrill you’d ever have
You can imagine the police chasing her as she is lead by her all eye seeing sat nav.
Nope not for me…
Uuhh! Here’s one for me, “Bosom Presser”
Squeeeezing them breasts from the largest to the lesser.
I gave them a call straight away
Only to find out the job was not really that way
Dam!
The next one was, what the f-ck? a “Dike Stoneman”
Well I don’t think any man can
This must be a woman bouncer for a happy club ( I hope this is more politically
correct than saying “Gay”)
The one you greet say “Hey Bud”
Well later I googled the titles and yes you right, I was wrong,
I suppose me old job will be lifelong
Overworked, under paid
Oversexed under laid
Here are a few more jobs I came across, an “Egg Smeller, Chicken Sexer, Pillow Girl
:-) , Butt maker, , Fire Drier (never heard of wet fire) and for all you animal lovers out
there, Frog Shaker, Monkey Tail Puller and those who don’t change their underwear,
a Skid Marker