We were sold on the idea of labor of the hands And from the labor of our hands we would rise That was the myth our parents told us as kids We now tell it to our kids because the machine Of production is hungry and it needs more Than calloused hands it needs broken bodies It needs broken minds that believe the fables About working hard and working our way up When the reality is we are still slaves earning Meager wages that we pay back to the bosses Keeping us indentured to them so that we labor More while nothing changes except our age Working until we can’t and hoping we saved Enough scraps to help survive until the grave They keep us just comfortable enough to fear We might go hungry or lose our rented shelter To keep thoughts of revolution slumbering In daydreams as long as there is just enough
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Musing & Creating with T.J.S. Sherman 