A
Bee
A busy fucking bee.
Time is not kind to me these days.
These days roll into weeks, peaks and troughs.
Retracing my steps, back and forth. What's it all for? I don't know.
Time to grow? mold.
Stagnant.
The pregnant month is far passed and closer still.
Only 1 month until.
Resolutions are not resolved, yet I have revolved round the sun and I have not begun to better myself or evolve.
I'm here.
Dissolving in the stagnant pond, growing mold, and older.
I was told life was full of choices, but its not.
You rot.
Shit or get off the pot and find yourself shuffled onto another.
I should count my lucky stars.
I'm far from the bottom.
I have a job, I don't need to rob or beg.
Head down the dole queue and scroll through the job sheets.
Not meet the requirements.
Tiring.
No one hiring.
"The Romanians should remain in their own part of the green, its obscene."
"These polish are always in pole position for the jobs."
"Robbery."
"Broad bloody daylight."
But Piotr is just the same as Pete.
Not meeting requirement or making ends meet.
Why can't we all get along, we'd all song from the same hymn sheet if they stopped changing the fucking song.
Is it so wrong to ask for a fair days pay for a fair days work?
We're not sherkers, we're busy worker bees.
Nurses on 60 hours a week need food banks to survive.
I bet it's the only poverty in banking.
MP's get 75 grand a year and spend most of the time wanking.
Is it my lucky stars I should be thanking? Battle lines are not drawn, just velvet curtains.
I mainly draw breath, to sigh.
Wave goodbye to the Mrs,
another weekend has flown by.
Why?
Zed.
