Systemic Strain Part II
Proof that survival is an art outline,
And you paint it daily with any scraps
They embark you.
They monitor your struggles without seen
In the prototype of the broken appliances
Behind it.
The group blame the person
Instead of the patterns.
They call it "Personal "
Responsibility ".
When it's genuinely Systemic Sabatoge.
But you-
You trudge with a spine that recalls everytime
You bent and still didn't quit.
You speak with a voice that carries the
Parroting of every barrier lifted.
And you say it plain, loud enough for the
Block to hear:
This tautness ain't mine
This fault ain't mine
This fight was allotted to me by a system
That never cultivated how to hold its own
Bulk.
I'm not the Crack.
I'm the pressure point.
I'm the vocal cords that named the real culprit
And to carry it's shame declines.
Systemic Strain, Not Personal Fault
"The walk for help- " I walked miles with
Nothing but courage in my pockets, hoping
The doors ahead still cared ".
" A bank shut its doors on my survival, and
The pavement became my only witness". After
A bank shut its doors on my tomorrow ".
"Need pressed against my ribs while someone
Behind a counter constrained against my dignity ."
I stepped into a room built for mercy, but the air was
Heavy with judgements, eyes measuring my worth
Like I owed them proof of why hunger had followed me in.
They keep telling you
"Hold it together "
Like you ain't already patching cracks
In a world built crooked
You juggle bills,
Appointments,
System that glitch like busted streetlights,
And they still ask
Why you walk like the weight got hands
Around your larynx.
But listen-
This ain't your flaw
This is pressure cooked in premises
You never stepped in,
Policies you never voted for, rules penned
By people who never had to stretch a dollar
Til it yelped.
You ain't the problem.
You're the evidence.
Wallace Stevens said:
"Poetry is not personal."
He tried never to divulge
anything about himself
in his poems.
So he said.
But the work is
self-revelatory: veiled confessions,
repeated choices -- water, sea motion,
weather, the sky -- introspective isolation --
those silences and descriptive phrases
that communicate and characterize.
Human, no one --
especially not poets --
can really hide.
Expectation is where the truth will be found.
Are you prepared to die at your post so that the boss can make his extra pound?
Degrees of intelligence are found all around. Commitment, pride and loyalty in one person is rarely sound.
Balancing your professional with life emotional where the business line is ‘it’s not personal’ is laying on a bed of nails and receiving additional load to hold!
Never will you be free of the whims of the management! Do as I say… is the greatest get-out excuse ever made!
Be prepared to work extra to prove yourself. Be prepared to monitor WhatsApp on your anniversary date. Be prepared to fit within your ‘new family’ not just be a mate!
Learn to laugh when it’s expected of you. Learn to dance to their song no matter how out of tune. Learn to lie to your loved ones because it’s demanded of you.
Be prepared to give 100% all the time.
When it’s hard to achieve you better give 99!
The clique will demand respect before the door’s open to you.
Try to keep a separate bit of your soul because they’ll happily take it from you.
My truths about self are important
To me but, can be different from others.
I ‘ve wiped tears from my cheeks from being knocked down.
I’ve told myself, fail I will not; personal honor, self-respect
Is important; I will fiercely fight.
I will not abandon my trust of moral values, personal,
Or political; or harshly criticize and place myself in guilt.
I will abandon ego of self-importance, work on personal growth.
I have a lot of weakness, but accountable.
So, I look for my strength.
Want to be appreciated for contributions and who I am.
Alone in whimpering gloom darkness alone I do not desire.
My truths about self, trust God.
Believe; with Him, I can do all things.
Come join me on my erratic journeys over earth and sea.
I'll take you to nowhere special or, perhaps, a place you want to be.
I'm neither friend nor foe, so you need to know it's not personal at all.
I might appear as a gentle breeze or even a violent squall.
If my presence is not welcome; I do apologize.
Sometimes I get carried away and therein the problem lies.
Heavy-handed or light as air, I touch everything in my path.
At times, I lose my temper and then you feel my wrath.
Depending on my disposition, I've been called by many a name.
I am really just the wind and my nature brings me my fame.
March 24. 2024
It's not personal, it's business,
says the guy overcharging you.
Knowing you'll begrudgingly pay:
they keep squeezing until you're broke.
You cringe inside each time you hear:
it's not personal, it's business.
And yet, partial payments increase
the amount owed on their ledger.
With no job, you live off food banks
and grift on the street for your rent.
It's not personal, it's business;
doesn't help when your hydro gets cut.
Society's a heartless beast;
that chews up souls and spits them out.
And as life beats you down, you hear
it's not personal, it's business.
I throw down poems onto a page, and look at them fondly.
Some glare at me, others take a swift bite out of my neck.
Trying for attention.
I know it is not personal, so I let it slide.
Enthusiastic poetry always starts out with the words
“dancing and prancing” which is tedious now, but Trixie is stuck there.
Do I retire her? Fire her? Inspire her? Aspire to guide her gently?
It is a quandary.
Rhymes I love, but they take a bit more work, for I
am compulsive enough to want each line to have exactly
the same amount of syllables. Often an impossible feat.
And yet, here I am, throwing tally marks all over my paper.
Someone asked me how I come up with ideas.
They land in my lap, on my shoulders, they hit me in the petootsie.
When I least expect it some of my most unlikeable co-workers
will run in to confide something, and voila. An idea is born.
I have an affinity toward making fun of co-workers
silently, stealthily, behind their backs.
Or in front of their faces.
It matters not a whit.
They never see
themselves.
He was a cold dish, had to walk away from the table. No love was being served. He would never give me what I deserve. He only ever left Me unnerved. Curled into a ball crying, unraveling and rolling away from sanity and peace. In him I found no relief. In his arms I only felt harm. He only left scars, internally marred. Loving him was a disaster, wanted a partner but got a Master. I was his slave. One day he'd feed me than starve me for days.stockhome love disease, I was lost in a haze, unable to distinguish, the truth in his lies. Saw nothing while looking in his eyes. Black and soul less ,in him I found no solace. Dark and dusty, i'd stumble and choke trying to navigate the hallways of his mind. Tried to find his motivation for playing with mine. Never found a reason other than just the flavor of the season. It's not personal ,this type of man is impersonable. In the confines if his soul there is obviously a hole. I hope it heals, but nevertheless I am outa this deal.
It was a cold metal burn,
love fatal GSW
A bullet to the head,
exited my heart
Shot went straight thru
Silencer tears
pressing on the pillow,
buried me in my sleep
Whispering to the half-dead dying:
It was business not personal
Such empty words offering no real comforting
Nine hundred and eleven seconds of fame
briefly made me
a statistical passionate-less victim celebrity
An emotional second amendment casualty
The first responder
who came to rescue me,
she was too late ...
much too late
Too much time had passed
since my lungs collapsed
Her CPR kisses couldn’t revive me
It was too late,
much too late
Too much time had gone by
since my world collapsed
I was pronounced brain dead,
with her lavender scent still lodged in my head
Femme fatale tears
kibosh pillow buried me
Now I have only dead feeling dreams
in my dirt-covered sleep
A love I thought was real,
was only a zombie sleepwalking fantasy
I wish I coulda shown some signs of life
to the first responder
who tried to revive me
But it was too late,
much too late
This Love is in Prison
awake I am emotional
take it easy not personal
this love is now in prison
I fail to understand the reason
doing what I wanted, I tried
I failed, I lost hope, I cried
things seemed to be the best
but later turned to be the worst
the heart turns to be dry
love seems to be a lie
in prison I cannot escape
like a little girl during rape.
Drencho POET Loads
Hello Love, how are you doing today?
Me? The same as yesterday.
Although there remains sorrow,
I reach for tomorrow.
Hello Love, will you please pass my way?
Oh Love, I met an old friend the other day.
Like old times, I knew just what to say.
Why were you not there?
I believe you lack any care.
Hello Love, will you please pass my way?
Each time I call Love with you that I fall.
A feeling so strong how can you be so wrong?
I know it is a shame but Love you are to blame.
How can Love be so blind?
Sorry Love, I should never talk this way.
It is not personal, I do hope you stay.
Why must you go?
You just got here, you know?
So long Love, please come back to me someday.
...............................................
Contest Entry: A Conversation
Date Judged: 09/05/2016
Result: NA
Contest 2: Take the Dagger from My Heart, Please 2
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Result: 2nd Place
............................................
When I was young, I wanted to run away to the circus. Then one day I realized the circus was life! Are we not the clown, the strongman, the freak, the daredevil? Is there not personal sorrow and the desperate search for pleasure? The flying trapeze man and woman are in love, and every performance, they risk the breaking of their heart. When one almost falls to their death, the audience cries out, and then claps even louder! The freak show is hidden in the back, though its location is well known to local politicians. Then to play the games on the midway, with its crooked carnies, rigged set ups, and worldly women. The city is 'the big top', its chaotic gyrations and jaded excitements, all part of the show. The grandstands are filled with 'television head' people, buzzing with excitement. See the eye of the tiger, hear the trumpet of that greatest of beasts, cowl at the jungle kings exclamation! Later that night, a young boy lying in bed, wonders if it was just a dream. Then, far off in the distance, a whispering growl was heard!
I'm sorry it was the plan
For you to play the deceiver
I've learned that it's not personal,
It's just the setup of the Schemer
It may not have been my fault,
But really, it's not your's either
You were born a flame thrower,
I guess I was born a flame receiver
But I'm not bitter
I learned to be a flame eater;
Understanding the fire
Makes the burn a little sweeter...
But I'm still sorry it was the plan
For you to carry out the task
Because ambivalent feelings
Are the inevitable aftermath
I've learned to forgive
And let the past be the past;
In the end, I got stronger,
And a chance to laugh last
My feet are on higher ground
And walk a smoother path;
But every time I see fire,
The flames wear your face
As a mask
So close but not personal
Straight ahead but diagonal
Perfectly rational yet paranormal
Minutely infinite yet strangely colossal.
Here’s to the distance, that’s within the reach
Celebrate the rule that inspires the breach
Sickening pleasures that poor the rich
Guess one time or another, we all got to scratch that itch.
Walking on water, floating on Earth, and sinking in the air
Too passionate to care, yet too righteous to be fair.
Here she comes, the hell on high heels
Pure adrenaline, and the hunter becomes the kill
I jump to conclusion for the rush of the thrill
The artisan of sin, she known how to heal.
(C) Obaidur Rahman. Published in the poet’s debut book of English poetry titled “The Mystic Inferno” in 2012.
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